Nothing quite sells power like a ball and no one does it quite like the Empire, especially when the occasion's all about catering to the most esteemed and noble of them all. No expense has been spared; no corner untouched. Fountains run crystal-clear water under lights of gold and towers of marble so high, the display itself seems both a challenge to creation and a dare for anyone, any thing, to test their might.
No one could deny the statement.
A pyramid of fine glass sermons at the center room surrounded by bottles in an ever-winding circle of tastes: rosé, champaign, chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, pinot noir. No, nothing has been spared and why not? Even the stage is decorated, the red-wine silks hanging about it like the flow of a thousand, waiting dresses.
It is a proclamation. A production. A show.
Escaping the Empire is a futile effort.
But them, oh them. They weren't from here, nor did they follow mortal rules. By all accounts, they were the other. Something wicked and cruel born from the absence of everything and left only to want more. And now that they're here?
All there is to do is take. At least, somewhat.
Greed watches Lust out of the corner of his eye, the deep panes of his sunglasses reflecting the wealth about him in all its splendor. An hour or so before, they had just finished a dance routine that would have made even the most devote blush. Reconnaissance may be the name of the game tonight (among other things), but having a little bit of fun on the side wasn't against the rules. The unintended effect just added a bit of a bonus.
And while Lust, or as she is currently known as, Lady Dominique Razzka of the esteemed Razzka Family made political talks and arms deals with men who craved conquest, Greed took to more feminine company. Empire women, especially military wives, were a good source of information. Rumors, tactics, battle arrangements - women really held them all and more. The true generals with painted smiles and cat-groomed claws.
"She's beautiful, your wife," a woman at the corner of his ear purrs, breaking the silence. "Though, she's just as lucky to have a man like you." The lady's ruby-red nails bite into the leather of his long, fur-collared coat, making it groan.
Greed's lip crests upwards. "I guess you could say that. Though, it's more of a family arrangement." Which isn't a lie, per say. More of a twist on words. The Sin tilts his neck, letting one of his longer earrings graze the woman's skin with a purposeful tease. "Enough about us though, lovely. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?" The hand on his coat trembles while he whispers sweet viciousness into the crook of her neck. If nothing else, he was made for this; to mingle among mortals, to pull their deepest desires out and play them string for string like a fiddle. It was almost too easy. Little did they know what actually lurked behind, lurked deep, in his all-too-sure smile.
He, she, all of them: they were monsters. Demons. Hell-spawn sent only to destroy and swindle whatever they could.
"Me, sir? Oh, I am but a housewife. The commander over there is my husband." She lowers her voice, reaching up underneath his coat to touch his chest while the room's preoccupied. "He's a terrible brute. Not one for romance at all. Makes a woman desperate." The scritch of her sharp fingers force the fabric of his layered suit to a skip.
"Does it now." Greed's smile is daggers and heathenism. "That's a shame, love. Maybe there's something I can do."
A change in music alerts them both and the woman quickly pulls away to compose herself. The tune in question calls for a slow waltz; a melody for two.
"The brute calls for me, Lord Razzka. Can I - ?"
Greed's eyebrows knot together, his teeth disappearing in single, sly line. "Of course. Can't keep the lug waiting, can you?" He tosses his fingers to wave her off. "After."
The woman curtsies and as she leaves, the Sin turns his attention back to his partner in crime. Lust has a man snagged in her clutches for the next dance; a bureaucratic hierarchy type from the looks of him.
Greed almost feels sorry for the poor bastard. But so be it. He has his own pleasure to deal with and when a server comes around, he beckons the man over with a curl of two fingers.
"Ah, Lord. No encore performance?"
"No, not yet. Maybe if I find the right partner." He sizes up the server, legs spread and arms wide like a shark on land looking for a snack. The man's face wrinkles and his spine goes suddenly sharp, as if something foul's washed over him. "I - uh. Right. Can I get you - ?"
"The forty age on the rocks. Make sure it's poured high, will you?" Greed hums. "Thanks."
The server doesn't even bother sticking around. He makes a beeline to the back. Greed follows him on his exit, all the while scanning for the next opportunity.
Opportunity knocks as the waltz comes to an end. The doors swing open at the far end of the hall and a hush sweeps over the heads of those gathered, a single name on everyone's lips:
Solus zos Galvus.
The man himself pauses on the threshold, surveying the room as an eagle might survey its domain: with a cold eye and tilted chin. Though his stature is slightly less than those gathered, no-one with any respect for their own life would dare point it out - for this is the man responsible for the Empire's success. Its influence. Its might. At a mere thirty-five years of age, Solus zos Galvus has not only cemented and consolidated the Empire's rule but also installed himself as its first ever emperor.
The imperial regalia he wears clinks quietly as he strides down the centre of the room. The crowd parts to murmurs of 'Your Radiance', salutes, and curtsies. As zos Galvus passes Greed and his kin, his gaze shifts briefly towards them and he holds their gaze for the briefest of moments. Something in that instant seems to pass between them. Some manner of recognition of other.
--But it's gone in the next second as he strides past and ascends to a balcony with an unrestricted view of the stage. Once he is seated, he waves a hand.
How the crowd parts, how the world falls so silent, the head of a falling pin could be heard miles away: that's power. Ultimate, unyielding, and relentless. No matter how important anyone else saw themselves here, they all bowed to the arrival of their better. Like deer bending under the will of a taught, strung-out bow.
A shrewd smile passes over his lips, faint and sharp.
The guest of the fucking hour had finally arrived.
Greed shrugs to himself and as he presses the flats of his hands across the front of his suit, he gingerly rises out of his seat. The recognition doesn't surprise him much. They're all out of this picture in some way or another, aren't they? Above it all, watching time and its patrons scurry to the next oblivion. It's always the same, even if the backdrop switches out every now and again. There's always a crowd, always a civilization, always men and women clambering to impress the top.
The Sin weaves through the crowd with a sense of purpose. He spins on his heel one way, tips the other, and while his movements remain fluid, his fingers keep busy. They snag small trinkets: a couple of coins to line his pockets and a note or two of personal scandal. No doubt nothing that would even mildly intrigue his intended guest, but things he would appreciate later.
It's only when a guard gets in his way, does the procession top.
"Sir, you aren't allowed here."
"No?" Greed hums. "Ah, I must have been mistaken, then. This isn't the way to the courtyard?"
"No, it isn't. I'm going to have to ask you to step aside, sir." The guard's hand shoots up; a clear signal that any step further will have drastic consequences.
The Sin's mouth cracks. A moon's crescent sliver in the shape of harmful daggers. "You'll have to excuse me then, friend. Meant no harm." He puts a slur to his words. Not entirely a lie, but not entirely a truth either. He had been drinking; it would be all too easy to assume he was just another overindulgent guess. And that? Well, there was some truth to that, wasn't there?
The guard's audible sigh says he's right on the money. "Sir, you've had a lot to drink tonight. Please, return to your seat."
"Of course," Greed leers forward and his knuckles spread out across the center of his chest. A mocking imitation of cordialness. "But before I do, could you do me one favor?" He comes in close, too near that some might take it for affection. And maybe, the guard does. After all, what sort of party doesn't come with a few who've had a bit too many? It's par for the course. Expected.
The Sin wraps his hand around the back of the guard's neck, coy and delicate. And as his index raises between the point of the man's bones, he cranes his head, allowing his nose to almost touch the other's in a single moment of intimacy.
"What is it you really want?"
"What - ?"
Greed's lips shrink, puckering, and his shades slowly slide down. "I asked you - " The color of his eyes shift, like the tail of a red fish fleeing to the deep. "-what do you really want?" The Sin's nail trembles to a point and pricks into the man's skin. A needle, unknowing and faint.
"What I ..." The guard's words drop off. "-I want to go home. I hate this job. I just want to the tavern and spend the night with Veronica."
"Then why don't you? Don't worry, it'll be our secret, hmn? I'll make sure you don't get into too much trouble. Besides, you only have this one life, don't you? Why not have it all." Greed lifts his hand away and the point of his nail trembles to nothing, leaving behind normal flesh and blood. "Go ahead and take it. I've got things from here." Like a snake releasing a dearly departed meal, the Sin unravels and the guard stumbles away. His motion, his whole self, as dazed as a man wandering through a dream.
A tug as his jacket and the Sin straightens himself. He takes the stairs deliberately. Counting each step, feeling the press of wood against his heels as they click and clap his ascension. It's almost too easy. Too simple.
And by his sheer expression, he absolutely cannot wait to see what the rest of the night will bring.
The party is a social obligation and not one he had been particularly enthusiastic to attend. He cares nothing for the gossip, the politicking (although he is very good at it) or even the pleasure of more tangible company. Indeed, he is above it all, like a god watching from on high...
In a way that is exactly what he is, although those below are ignorant of the fact.
Solus zos Galvus doesn't appear to have noticed the disturbance at the bottom of the stairs. Or if he has, there isn't a single hint of fear or trepidation in the sharp, narrow gaze he shoots at the interloper who ascends them. He is wary of course - anyone with as much power and influence as he wields must be the source of at least one assassination plot a day - but for now, he remains seated, elbow propped on the arm of his chair and chin resting upon the back of his hand. This man is either arrogant or supremely confident in his own safety.
Up and up he goes and the floor below shrinks like a blurry dream. Faces that had been clear seconds ago melt into one another, fluid, streaming, and morphing into nothing more than twinkling lights and fancy fabrics. It's not hard to see why this an opportune spot. This high above it all, the horizon seems to stretch out to forever. A perfect place for a king, a lord, a God to hover over the humanity constant.
Greed's smile breaks it all in a single moment. A rock at the proverbial house of glass. "Solus zos Galvus," he says, snapping his tongue like a child with a large wad of bubblegum. He savors the depth of the name, the wealth. How rich a man is, simply by title alone.
The Sin innocently touches his chest and his expression softens to a low boil. "Me? No, nothing much. I just let him see what he really wanted out of life." He climbs one more step, making his way beyond the crowd with a bow in his back and sarcasm written on every inch of his crooked face. "Everyone wants something, Solus. Don't tell me you don't. After all, I've heard you're an honest man - that's something we have in common."
Greed sags his head and his fingers curl up across his face. They spread like the legs of a spider testing a web; gentle, tentative, and deadly. A blink of color betrays him though and as his eyes sink back behind his sunglasses, deep and soulless, his mouth shrinks to a squeezing pucker.
"But you're not really concerned about him are you? Just about what I did. I can show you, if that's what you want." He forms his spine into the banister, allowing his body to lean and sprawl as it pleased. In the reflection of his sunglasses, the crowd below has already returned to business as usual. People laugh, ladies clutch their chests and fan their faces with the juiciest of news. Greed reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single coil to dribble over his knuckles.
"All I need is your permission." His hand tips and dives only to snap to a still, leaving the coin pinched perilously between his index and thumb. "Nothing too hard, but you have to be sure. Don't worry - no one else will even notice."
The coin in his hand begins to change as he talks. The silver washes away as sure as tide to the shore and while the cool edges peel back, it's gold that replaces it. Glittering, shining; a capture of sunlight at the tips of his fingers.
Greed snaps it off is thumb, letting it tumble to the ground below.
"Now, it's just you and me." He uncrosses his ankles and stretches out his legs as far as he possibly can. "Whatever you want." He repeats. The Sin's hands wrap around the banister and he shoves himself forward. "Or you could just say no, continue to brood up here, and that'll be it. But where would be the fun in that?" His eyebrow creases his forehead and his smile cooks on his chin. A devil with a mouth sweet enough to savor, but fatal to swallow. "Then again, I could just go ahead and skip all the formalities. But that wouldn't be too pleasant for either of us."
He's close again. Too close for comfort, too close for respect. Greed pulls his sunglasses off his heavy, closed eyes. He clips them to the collar of his coat a second later and his fingers waver. As if holding onto the moment, stretching it, like the last touch before a long send off.
When he opens his eyes and stares up at the man (no, beyond that isn't he?), the slits of his eyes have all but shrunk. No longer are they larger and swallowing, no. Instead, they quiver - needles shaking, desperate and excitable for an answer.
The Sin extends his hand at a distance. "What do you say?"
He grows more tense the closer they approach. He has a knife on his person in case of situations like these - two, in fact - but he has a feeling that a knife won't work on this creature. Like him, they're something other and no mere blade will suffice to keep them back.
That said, he's not worried. It would be terribly inconvenient if 'Solus' were to die here however, after such painstaking efforts to raise him to the seat of emperor. Bright, crimson lines spiral down his left arm and a mark of the same colour flashes before his face. Bright like a neon warning for predators: 'Do not eat'.
"There is only one power in this world that can give me what I desire, and it's not you," he hisses. "Find some other, more gullible prey."
After all, he has no proof, no guarantee about what this man (or thing) can do. He has lost too much and worked too long to bet it all on such easy temptation. No, he will need a more tangible guarantee than empty promises before he even begins to consider bending his ironclad principles.
Red meets his red, a casual promise of calamity, and the Sin's expression changes. Fear, surprise, intrigue, desperation - he holds them all with that look. The whites of his eyes expand to saucers, forcing his smile to dance on the very edge of madness. It's all consuming. His demeanor like a starved man seeing his first oasis in centuries. In him, everything wild that Garlemald tried to keep at bay breaks in. It seeps out of him in waves, crashing and beating down the civilized barriers of etiquette with a single, twisted smile.
He forgets to breathe, not that it matters. He isn't really living anyway. Not like most.
Greed's teeth chatter and tremble together as if his gums are trying to desperately keep them in place. "Ha - !" He barks. "HA-! Now, who would have fucking thought? You're just full of surprises!" The Sin toes backwards, his heels and the tips of his boots making him retreat, albeit slightly. Emet's threat meets his offer in a union of violence. They stand together, predator to predator, the answer of who could come out on top hanging by a delicate thread.
He wans to know. Needs to know. His core demands it.
Greed pauses and as his shoulders relax, he picks his sunglasses out from his collar. A flick of his wrist opens them again. "Gullible? No, I don't think that about you at all. Judge me all you want Solus, but don't take me for something I'm not."
Exasperation takes hold of him as he fastens his sunglasses back over his face. "It isn't surprising. Most people do deny me at first. But then again, you aren't most, are you?" He presses his fingers up to shove his shades over his eyes while his nails twitch and threaten to leave gauges in the glass. "But what you are - oh, what you are. You're truly something."
The Sin hums wistfully. The way he pointedly avoids looking Solus dead in the eye, the way his mind and attention wanders. He watches nothing and everything all at once. As if a world beyond stretched out in front of him, out of focus and dim to everyone else. "No, I'm not the one you're looking for. I rarely am. But that's always how I end up here. Well, sort of."
How he ended up existing is a more appropriate answer.
Greed's mouth softens and while his neck falls sluggish on the weight of his bones, he raises both of his arms above his end. A signal of surrender, if only in gesture alone. "Your choice, then. You could kill me if you wanted, though I think you already know that'll be a waste of time." He lowers his hands and a feathery dark, not unlike a waft of smoke, frees itself from his arms. It twirls around his wrist before shrinking into the floor below; a toxic heave of smoke disappearing back to the depths.
"We got off on the wrong foot," Greed tongues his cheek. He can taste it in the air; a strength, a source, driving him wild. "You said there's only one person that can show you what you really desire. I don't think you're lying about that. But has it happened yet?" He pauses to run his thumb up the center of his throat. "Or are you still waiting? All I'm offering is a moment. Real, fake, whatever it is - and after, you can do whatever you want. Like I said, killing me might not do much, but if that's your choice - "
Finally, he turns back to Solus, the heaviness on his eyes blatant and stark. There's age in his face that shows not in wrinkles, but in experience. Where years aren't measured in time but by the points of tragedies encountered along the way.
Greed lifts his thumb away from his throat and a sizzle of electricity evaporates off his skin. "Some want fame, others want wealth. But do you know what I find people really want the most?" He mouth goes neutral. "They just want to see a loved one again, or a home they've left behind. The way I see it, greed is no different than hope. What's noble, what's taboo - to me, it's all the same. And is that such a bad thing? Is having too much hope really such a problem?"
The Sin turns away and his weight shifts to favor his left. "Ehh, guess that's a lot of me to ask, isn't it? I haven't even introduced myself yet." Though, he had a feeling Solus (if that was what he was really called), could have easily figured it out by now. He didn't take things at face value. He didn't leave things to chance.
Greed's teeth peer out from his mouth, raw and sharp.
His fingers dig into the arms of his seat. He's glad that the other man has turned aside, as for the briefest moment Emet-Selch's mask slips and a flash of raw fury twists his aging face. He slams it back on quickly enough, reassembling it into Emperor Solus' stern, unforgiving planes. It isn't possible that they know, he reminds himself. They're simply pulling wild guesses out of the air hoping to hit a mark.
They want an in. They want a crack in the armour so they can slip through. Well, they won't have it. Twelve thousand years he has laboured for their people. He isn't about to surrender all that work to some creature of the void and their honeyed words.
"Killing you here would raise questions, but not so many that I am unprepared to answer. Get yourself gone before I change my mind," he says gruffly, turning his hard gaze back to the gathering below. He had been prepared to enjoy the performance but...well, now his mood has soured.
The corner of his lips pucker in amusement. "Oh, did I hit a nerve? Wasn't my intention." He hums and his eyes crease, fluttering and tensing with nasty intent. It is in them (the furrow of his skin, the tightening of his nerves) that dreams of beyond dwell. Where power, wealth, and notoriety reach out with crooked fingers to strangle the opposition.
Greed's teeth grind together so hard they almost crack and spark with the pressure. It's in his nature. He's the scab that never quite heals, the itch that never gets a scratch. And oh, does he love every last second of it.
The Sin's face screws over, tightens, and snaps to finally show his frenzy pure and raw. He simmers. "Get gone?" He tastes his own lips and gingerly pulls them into his mouth; his expression as blissful as someone sampling a fine meal. "As you wish, your highness." The end of his sentence extends and the S(s) draw out to a snake's empty lullaby.
And that's where it changes. The mask slips. The pretense tumbles. A curtain call of a completely different kind.
Greed's tongue rolls out of his mouth, lithely stretching to form a fiery, split-down whip. His transformation is both painfully slow and deliriously fast. Fine dust breaks from his skin in a condensed, black funnel only to spin as it thickens and churns like a whirlpool on a dark night. Greed spreads his arms to his sides and the tails of his coat evaporate; their torn remains spooling out to disintegrating threads.
And he laughs. Oh, how he laughs. His baritone boxes the ceiling and batters the walls with the force of an explosion. Even as he disappears into the swirling swill of his own making, his joy, his hysteria, thunders and claps. No storm could hold candle to it. No tempest could even try.
The Sin's smile breaks through the ash, now twisted and jagged. Where sharp teeth had been before, elongated daggers now take their place, and the pricks of his eyes burn like coals through the mist. A show of his fire, true and plain. "Ha .. AH HA HA HA HA! Who would have ever thought!? You really are something special, Emperor!"
Waves of inky black roll out of his mouth, spilling into his ever-expanding presence. He's everywhere and nowhere all at once. Wisps of himself crawl across the floor, wrap around the banister, and choke them out. Greed purses what's left of his jaw in the mayhem - his expression both tender and unstable. A creature eating itself alive.
When he speaks again, his voice is hollow. Tinny. A can's echo. "I really do admire that about you. Maybe one day, we could be good friends." Holes break through his face, his hair, his throat and the light behind them dims. All the while, another cough of smoke drops out of his jaws and vomits over his feet, swallowing them whole.
Greed tries to breathe this time, but it's too late. He's already crossed the threshold. "I hope you'll think of me differently after this." From the looks of it, he's having difficulty moving. He stretches his arm out with a strain - his fingers almost locked in a tense, clawing grip. He reaches to grab a hold of anything he possibly can. But at the mercy of the whirlwind, he's no match.
Not that it matters. He's right where he wants to be.
His fingers fall apart, break into pieces, and the boney tips sputter off short spirts of electricity. Zzt. Ztt. Ztt. Greed gasps in his own suffocation; the last of the ash in his gut finally filling his nose and mouth to stifle out his laughter.
He's gone a second later, replaced by the sounds of merriment and amusement below. Light creases off glass and party goers alike; a soft melody plays distantly up the staircase. It's silent. Quiet.
It's the pressure that shatters it. The sensation comes from all sides; above, below, inside, and out. Noise amplifies only to splinter under the terrible sensation of buzzing. Like an eardrum blown out by cannon fire.
"You're going to be like that, aren't you. You won't give up and you won't give in until every part of you is suffering. I did tell you - it wasn't going to be pleasant for either of us." Greed's voice is an annoying whisper through it all. His tone hisses above the static, stinging and biting where it can. "It's a shame, your majesty. This could have been so much easier." The Sin exhales, forcing his voice over unseen teeth as prickly as nails grinding down a chalkboard.
Getting to this point was one thing, and he's unsure of the outcome. But he can only imagine the fight on the horizon. After all, possessing an unwilling host is always a challenge. And here? Well.
His gnarled hands grip the armrests of his chair as he staunchly faces the seething cloud, face set. The noise rattles him from the inside out, sets his teeth on edge. It's a different pressure to that which lies at the bottom of the ocean. The descent and ascent don't rock him to his core the way this fiend does.
What manner of voidsent are they? Something strong - far stronger than any of them could have foreseen.
"You won't have me," he whispers. The red mark flares before his face. Not for the first time, he wishes it did not limit the power the seat of Emet-Selch can wield. Such ancient magic, however, is not his to undo. "Not in a thousand years. You don't know me, nor the sacrifices I've made to make it here, you shallow creature. You thirst for something you will never truly have."
I know because I, too, have been tainted by Darkness.
Lifting a hand, he gathers his power. More power than even the best mage of this realm can ever bring to bear. So much so that he thinks even those below can surely sense something amiss.
The surge of power shifts through him like a conducting current, leaving an ethereal taste of copper buzzing in his mind. It lights him up as sure as a live, hot wire and his thoughts static and break. His everything leaks out and fills the spaces in between in a tangle of thick ink. In the instant, as two of them remain separate and apart, Greed feels both blind and fully aware of his surroundings. Similar to a bat on a supersonic high, the world about him vibrates in color. Reds crash into blues, whites go off like atom-bomb stars in the back of his mind's eye. They erupt into patterns and collide into one another, only to shatter again like a broken kaleidoscope.
He's never tasted anything like this; never felt anything better. And while he basks in everything this man is, distracted and drunk, pieces of him creep into the gaps between. Moments of who he is, what he is, casting themselves in hisses of static.
Greed sucks in a breath and where he once stood, the faintest hint of a thunderhead pulses silently to life. Whatever grip he has on the patrons below holds, though tentatively so. There's a feeling of something for some of the more attuned few - a glance here, a pause or break in conversation there. The sensation for others is alert; as if someone had briefly sauntered over their grave to kick away the dust. It's a feeling of ill will in the air. A presence of everything evil and rotten crawling to meet each other in dissonant harmony.
Flooding forward with all the force he can muster, the Sin concentrates himself. He tries to bite at Emet's defenses and rip them apart by will and laughter alone. "You're finally understanding. I want it all. Everything you have, everything you've ever wanted. But don't get the wrong idea," Greed's tongue lashes invisible teeth. "-as much as I'd want to, there are limits. I may be bad, but even I have some standards, friend."
The air in the room turns up a notch, then another and another. It's warm in the way a jungle is warm; hot in the way a desert scorches the earth. The Sin makes a noise like lips touching together ever-so-softly. "I can cut you out of this. Remove you from this one moment and give you a taste of it all. A second to be blissfully away from all this bullshit. You just have to give me your hands."
Another flash of violence wriggles into vision. The place isn't here - it's far away. Darkness squirms and infects all it touches. No where is safe from it; not the rocks, not the trees, nor the empty shells of buildings that had once stood as a testament to humanity and mortality, now incubators for creatures starved of the sun. Yet above all the devastation, it is them that linger. Faces made prominent in vague shadows and menacing shapes. Seven of them total stand tall. Towering giants twisted and clawing like the Titans over the destruction of Olympus.
Greed hums from somewhere behind and his arms stretch out, shadowy and intangible. Four of them try to wrap around Emet loosely; their forming fingers turning sharp and crooked. "I'm sure you hear it often. All those people down there singing your praises. If only they knew. If only they realized how special you truly are." The Sin sighs, his exhale catching each edge of him, every barb, in a thin whistle. "You're so much more. Oh, Your Highness, you're just too, too, much - "
His jaws close in, but the pressure radiating off his target is too much to bare. Greed snaps his mouth shut, sudden and brisk. Something has broken. Maybe him from too much energy. Maybe his spell from being stretched too thin. The air in front of them cracks, forming a hairline split like thin ice spiderwebbing underfoot. The Sin's arms retreat to the tune of a thousand snakes and in his chest, a noise stirs; a sound of a purr and a growl storming in delight.
"Just so you know that I'm telling the truth. The name's Greed, not Envy. I make it a point not to lie. But if that's not enough to convince you - " Greed's attention changes direction; a predator seeking out an alternative meal. "I could find someone else if that's what you want. I'm sure you won't have an issue with that, hmn?" A hint of confidence nips back into his jaw.
"Otherwise, we're just going to be doing this all night long. And I don't think either of us want that, do we?"
For half a moment, he falters. Trapped in this mortal body, for the time being, he can only revisit those days of paradise in his dreams - and even those dreams sometimes end in fire and death. This entity - Greed, as it calls itself - would offer him that dream.
He casts his gaze out over the people below. Solus' people. Not his. Their pride is not his own. Their dreams and aspirations far removed from those of his long-dead people. His aging frame seems to sag under its own weight (or perhaps just the weight of his heavy heart) but his defences remain firm. His conviction is not so easily broken. Why should he care where this creature wishes to feast?
But they're right that they cannot continue this all night, and if he lets them loose in the city then his carefully laid plans may crumble.
"A moment of bliss for, what, my soul?" he asks, his chuckle more a dry cough than anything. Frustrating how these mortal bodies break down after two-score years. Solus is verging on half a century now but he can hear the creak in his joints, the wearing down of cartilage, and sense the slow decline of his own organs. "You will have to bargain better than that. Why should I settle for a moment when I can have an eternity?"
The crack drives deeper into him, splintering his focus and forcing a pang of something into his core. Greed's breath hitches somewhere (an inhale of air, a jump of soot through the floorboards that's both subtle and alarming all at once) and his mirage briefly falters. Where he exists is in the peripheral. He's there and he isn't. He's whole, but transparent; a shadow of a man, a monster, hovering between one reality and the next.
The Sin almost misses the question. "Your soul? Ha - ! No - " A static shock arcs out of the air, spitting and hissing like a snake electrified in a terrible, wicked red. "-if I wanted that, we wouldn't be talking right now. Besides - ah," his voice dies in his throat. Under all that pressure, under all of Solus's sheer mass, he feels like he's falling. Like he's coming apart, tearing himself open, and bleeding out everything and all he's ever been.
A jagged smile etches in the air and stretches out - the edges of it reaching like nails searching for a wall to scratch on.
"An eternity," Greed finally answers, breathless. There's a sense of a grin in his tone; a tickle of malice pure, raw, and unabashedly wanton. "You're just as greedy as I am, aren't you?" Another tremble of dust vibrates around the banister. It lifts off the wood with a mind of its own; like the aftermath of a deafening rocket shaking the earth from its slumber. "I like the sound of that."
And hasn't that always been the catch? Eternity without the concerns of their own rules, without worrying about him, without all the strings that came attached.
Greed's focus suddenly snaps, his red eyes briefly reforming as pricks in the dim. "I told you that we couldn't do this all night. I wasn't lying, friend." When he speaks, his voice seems far more distant. It's a whisper - a hiss from a violin's string or a hum from a clinking glass. No, he can't do this much longer. Shedding his form had been a risk he was willing to take, but going back? Now? When it's all so, so close -
A member of the waitstaff passes below, unaware and oblivious of what's watching him. Greed gathers himself. "It's either you or that one down there," he slurs. "-then you can decide for yourself."
But he isn't wasting time. A ribbon of ash slithers down the steps, twisting and turning like a thick band of wire seeking out a power source. "It's always been your choice. So, what'll it be?" The soot pauses, rises up, and puffs out; a cobra seconds from a strike.
He coughs again, a little louder, and shakes his head.
"You think I care about these people? I would curse the gods if this empire fell tonight but you can have that one if you wish." The men and women here - they are expendable. The loss of one (if indeed this creature intends to take them over) is a mere pebble in the way of his grander scheme. The problem is what they do with them...
"Mark my words: I'll not suffer you to undermine all that I've built thus far," he growls. "I don't know what you are, nor do I care - stay out of my way and out of my plans else your greed will forever go unsatisfied."
And there it is, his permission. While it's not written in stone or summoned up from the desperation of desire, it is an allowance of sorts. An open dinner bell of a different kind, coughed up and spat at his feet with the same threat and distaste as someone (something) so much higher on the food chain that they couldn't be bothered.
Greed's body flashes once more and his alarming grin burns itself into the limelight; like that of a lightning strike outlining its crash. "You drive a hard bargain, chief. But fine, suit yourself. Hold that thought though -" Much like his voice, his presence drifts. Twirls of ash crawl down the steps with a purpose. They bounce and spiral low to the ground; their edging fingers tiptoeing closer, closer, closer -
The man never sees it coming. His preoccupation with the goings on (the many guests to tend to, his never-ending list of demands, his personal life) make him an easy target. He's halfway to his next destination, unknowing and carefree, when he suddenly stops. From the tips of his toes to the grip of his hand, every part of him appears to seize up. It's almost as if he's hit an invisible wall - one solid, foreboding, and thrown up endlessly to block his path. The server's eyes wander wildly in his sockets and as the drinks on his tray begin to sweat, his chest slowly expands; his breath all but catching in his throat.
"What do you want - ?" The Sin's voice whispers in. Like a squall trapped in a jar, his body thunders in and out of the physical; his existence now a fleeting, flickering thing. Greed guides one of his four arms to gently cup the man's face. "What do you really want - "
The nameless server studders. He doesn't speak (or he simply can't). Nevertheless, he watches what is about to swallow him with both fear and intense precision. Greed lowers his head. "You have to tell me. Whatever you want - " The devil turns his neck and as he puppets the man's skull to lean into his ear, an alarmingly kind smile touches on what's left of his lips. "Hmnn? You're going to have to speak up a little bit there, handsome."
A silent exchange passes between them. Instead of words, their conversation sparks in colors. Purple sizzles and murky blacks write out the silent contract: what is willingly given, what is willingly received. Greed's claws rake down the man's throat and the remnants of his half-smoking forehead press against the man's head. "-see, that wasn't so hard, huh? I just hope you have the stomach for it."
Seconds later, he's gone, and the waiter shakes his head like a man out of a dream. He looks to the left of him, the right, behind him, then begins to head back out to his work. However, his freedom doesn't last. He makes it to the banister of the stairs when the tray in his hand goes topside; its various flutes of rich-gold champaign clattering to the floor. The man eases down to his knees. Whatever grace and poise he may have had quietly goes out the window as his body fights itself. His fingers twitch, the veins in his forehead gorge and bloat beneath his skin. Yet, he makes not a sound. Not a whisper, not a scream, nor a sigh. He just clutches his head and as the bow of his spine contorts under his long-tailed jacket, his nails bitterly claw at his hair, freeing it from a loose tie string.
His fingernails dig, peeling themselves free and cracking. No, the promise, the deal he's been given - it comes with a price, doesn't it? And all debts need to be paid at some point.
The last of his nails rips open and the waiter's head hits the carpet with a dulled thud. When he inhales again, his voice isn't his own anymore. "Ahh -," Greed tongues at his new cheek, feeling it out. "I did ask if you had the stomach for it, kid. Guess not - "
The Sin grips his legs, righting himself to a stand. "You should probably sleep this one off. You'll get yours once I'm done." Similar to an insect in a cocoon, he tests his borrowed body - swaying his skull one way and the next, rolling his shoulders back to click and pop all the bones into place.
Greed brings his hand up to his face and turns to look back up at Solus. "Now, where were we? Oh - " He wiggles his fingers. The stubs of his lost nails are angry, raw, and thin bits of skin stingingly cling to the cuticles. The Sin examines them with a strange sort of fascination before his core kicks in and his red current licks them clean, leaving a fresh, manicured set. "-don't worry about it. I did tell you, didn't I? It takes a little more than that to hurt me. It's the same now for our friend here."
He lazily steps over a broken piece of glass. "I'm not here to get in your way, chief." Crunch goes the handle of a flute. "You've got me all wrong. But then again, I can't really blame you." He takes another step, his hands making quick work to adjust his collar and remove the thin tie at the dip of his throat. "Most do deny me at first, that's true."
He drops the fabric on the banister: another thing of his host, discarded. "See, I look at it this way: want is no different than hope. And you're hoping for something. Something most don't really understand. Did I get that right?" It's a wild guess of course. An idea vaguely spun together. Greed waves his arm and the long jacket whips at his feet. "You could say I want something similar. But nothing's impossible."
He pauses at the top of the stairs and when he opens his eyes, they're no longer a muted green, but a wicked sort of red. A reflection of his parasitic hold pushing outward. Greed slouches his shoulders. "It's stupid to be stubborn. What, do you think all of this is enough to satisfy me? I don't care what you've built, Solus."
The Sin tests his host's teeth. "Ehh, either way, now you know mine. If you want me gone, this one'll be back here tomorrow just the same as always. I've given him that time. But if not - " His arms wander as eccentric as an actor eating up the applause. "-well, I'm sure you can figure out how to find me, can't you?"
Solus watches with thinly veiled disgust. He is, perhaps, the only one who watches. The only one who cares - all the rest have already turned back to their entertainment. Does Greed think he's the only parasite to try burrowing his way into the heart of this empire? Of its emperor? Solus has lived far too long and suffered far too much heartbreak to crack from such crude tactics.
"Pitiful creature. You want what you cannot have, yet even when you have it you will never be satisfied." Solus disregards the fact that he could very well be talking about himself. "It will never be enough. Man is filled with unrelenting want and you - you are the purest form of it. Begone."
That's right, he must turn his eyes away from the temptation. He must stand strong, for the burden of a thousand, thousand people rests upon his shoulders. Like the sole remaining pillar of a ruin crumbling towards the sea.
But even stone is worn down by wind and time.
text / i feel like being stupid and you have to deal with it
sound abt right?? glad you like the name at least it couldnt be some punkass shit plus if you look really close theres like a little white spot near one of the ears made sense
"Laid low, evading capture. A lifetime on the run. Don't know the day when I last saw the sun."
The change of the next millennium had brought with it a renaissance of sorts; where technology reigned supreme and superstition had turned the corner towards more mainstream entertainment. No longer did the masses fear what lurked behind every corner. Science had given them the answers to their questions and explanations for whatever went bump in the night. It was an admirable and impressive half truth. A way to calm the herd and keep progress on the ever-chugging train track towards advanced civilization.
But not everyone was on board. And those that still held on, those that still knew, still believed, were the very reason he'd ended up here in the first place.
Greed watches one of the copper pipes hanging above him. He'd noticed the slight crack in it months before. How it rattled whenever the sink a few floors up switched from cold to hot; the way it groaned and whined whenever the weather took a turn for the worse. Today, it's a few healthy inches of rain giving it trouble and as the sliver of a window in the basement's upper corner films up, he catches the small crack bleeding out again. The steady trickle of water, a thunderclap in all his silence.
A tired smile teases on his face. He should have known better, really. Avarice - for him, it meant honesty. Everything he was, everything he is: it's clearly defined. What he wanted and craved, forever worn on his sleeve. Mortals, however, came with the complexities of their small moments on earth. And when one is faced with the idea of being lost for eternity? He can't blame them for being desperate. For deciding to fight, claw, beat, and escape from a cage of their own making, no matter what could be the cost.
The deal had turned a corner as soon as he was summoned. Usually, he knew when someone was going to give him a call. There'd be a hint, a visit, anything. This, however, came with more than a touch of desperation. The man had been frantic when he first arrived: sweaty skin, ringing hands, eyes bulged out like saucer plates on the bad end of a cocaine line. It was if, finally, he knew his end was coming and it was time to clean the ledger and get all that red, Lord all that red, out, out, out.
When the priest showed up, Greed had laughed. Really laughed. After all, what could an average holy man really do?
He hadn't anticipated the angel masquerading as a demon hunter and that.
Well -
Greed lifts his hand, bringing with it a thick chunk of industrial-grade chain. With a snap of his fingers, he calls what he can from the world. A single cigarette crackles between his knuckles - its tip smoldering and smoking from whence it came. He brings it to his mouth. What little he can savor, he does, and while a familiar sensation burns at the back of his throat, his eyes retrace the long pipe again. No, he hadn't been prepared for that little surprise. It wasn't one of the ones he knew, far from it. A new white-collar hot shot looking to climb the ranks. But he, she, they had everything they needed to get the job done. And in the end, he was bound, chained, and dragged down into the bowels of some God (the irony) forsaken basement of a church miles away from his previous destination.
That was in what humans called July; when the humidity really set in and the roaches of the world multiplied in the hot, persistent damp.
Greed winces as his wrist turns just enough to let him exhale through his teeth. The shackles against his skin have been treated to an almost militant schedule. Fresh holy water first, blessed wine second, and a touch of real divinity to seal the deal. Honestly, under any other circumstance, he would be impressed by the whole thing. Each detail of his imprisonment is perfect; the execution of it, air tight. And isn't there a story the mortals used to tell once upon a time? The man of Greece who once tricked death -
His teeth bite into the filter of his smoke, squishing the padding and warping it into a tangled, lumpy mess.
In times like these man made new gods of neon and static, sent their prayers into wires and microphones and their tithes into electronic voids to feed that ever growing hunger. At it's core greed was their most universal sin, the one most human and in truth the one that drove all others. The most consuming, the most dangerous...
And for their nature, the most necessary.
Capturing the very essence of the Sin himself, in the flesh and whole on the mortal plane was absolutely a victory worthy of the highest accolades. One should be proud to have trapped him so thoroughly and it was only appropriate that he be exalted above his given status, that ladder free to climb for one so ambitious. And foolish. Of course, the angel in question had been careful. The prison as it was had been hidden in plain sight, making finding it the proverbial needle in a haystack. Or hay in a haystack, as it were. The city was rife with leaking run down basements, old abandoned tunnels, and all manner of other secret places within which one little demon might be spirited away. With the proper wards put in place it would be all but impossible to find.
But Murmur was never one to give up, no matter how daunting a task. He had a familiarity with the shifting underbelly of dark and twisted places that most of his brethren would balk at in horror. His status, order of Angels and order of Thrones equally allowed him to slip largely unnoticed. Angels of the lowest rank and lowest sphere, nothing to be concerned about, and Thrones of the highest and most alien order and yet believed mindless machines, their inner workings no more complex than that of gears. If there was one truth about his duplicitous brethren it was this: to exist only within the light was to render oneself blind.
Almost as soon as he'd heard the news Murmur had gone to work trying to locate the captured Sin, but the other angel had been unusually thorough. With wards and bindings galore they had ensured that for as tiny and uninspired as Greed's cell was, it was hidden even from the piercing eyes of the Angel of Sight. However, he hadn't gotten as far as he had relying on singular methods alone. Eventually the angel slipped, just enough, and Murmur found his way.
The irony of utilizing an old church basement hadn't been lost on him, but Murmur couldn't risk going through the front door, no, not for this escapade. It was one of those basements with a narrow window just above the ground, against which mud and water pooled in the torrential rain. Hardly the most dignified approach, but one subtle enough all the same. As quiet as he could manage, though the old hinges creaked and screamed their protest that was fortunately drowned out by the thunder and rain, Murmur managed to pry the window open enough to poke his head in.
"You've got yourself in something of a predicament, I see."
It was impossible to tell if the waft of cold was from him, or just from the air outside given the ferocity of the storm.
The chill is different from that hanging about the basement. It's fresh and almost inviting; a sigh a life creeping through all that damp, all that wet, with a sarcastic promise of freedom. Greed's smile, as tired as it is, sharpens behind his bruised fingers. Ironic that his saving grace would be a touch of grace itself. A lordly usher from high above, yet oh-so tangled in the ick and stink of the mortal plane that it stuck to him like tar.
A flare of orange ignites as he takes another drag off his cigarette. "You could say that," he hums behind the soft part of his hand. Thin wisps of smoke peel between the cracks of his fingers only to die on his skin and morph into heavy, numbing clouds. They have no where to go and just like him, the smoke wanders aimlessly for an exit; their metaphor not lost on him in the slightest.
Scabby blood splinters on his forehead as he arches his eyebrow. Greed lowers his hand from his face and his wrist cracks the side of the metal slab he's been chained to with a ghostly rattle. "You sound like shit yourself." The Sin's lips quirk to reveal his unnaturally sharp teeth. By the looks of it, he's been down here a while. The small splits in his lip are dry despite the basement's dank disposition, his skin's pale, and the chains biting into his flesh have left their tell-tale marks. Around his throat, a reddish-purple bruise angrily festers. Of course, it won't last - they never do. But with a thorough binding, even devils have their limits.
For the time being, he's at their mercy.
Greed flicks his fingers to send a wad of ash wafting to the floor below. "Had a little run in with one of yours," his voice hisses through his teeth and another rush of smoke drives itself out of his nose. It cruises across his chest; the look of it like a dead-man's army rushing to the battlefield. "-they interrupted one of my deals. Kind of rude, if you ask me." A touch of humor plays in his tone and on his face. Just because he's pinned like some sort of museum prize, that doesn't mean he's defeated. Far from it. After all, what is it they say?
Idle hands and the devil?
One of his ankles fidgets and the chord of heavy metal laced underneath the table strangles to a tight, hard line. "Don't suppose I can still count on you to be a little more reasonable, can I?" Greed tries to turn his neck to peer at the window, but his prison quickly puts an end to that. A few links of chain grip deep into his throat. They reopen a couple of the half-crusted wounds, making them crack, bleed, and split into fresh reminders. "Shame, I don't even get to have a good look at you. What a pain in the ass."
Again, he tries and again, he fails; the sudden, choking grunt in his throat a clear indication.
The Sin lets his head fall back with a solid thd against the table, and he lets out a short laugh. "You haven't changed at all. Not that I expected to you, but - " His tongue touches his lip and drags it back into his mouth. He can taste his blood again: how foreign it almost feels and how familiar it is now. Greed's finger traces out what's left of his cigarette. No, nothing does change. Angels don't change, they're bound by their decrees. Devils don't change, they're pulled by their nature. And mortals, ah mortals. They aren't even close to an exception. Even as the world turned towards something different, those inclinations, those wants, those needs, those fears - they would still be there, wouldn't they?
Yet maybe, just maybe -
Another pillow of ash falls from his smoke, forgotten and lost to the unforgiving concrete. Greed edges his eyes open. "I wasn't going to kill him, y'know. His life had already done that for me. I never actually kill the ones who take my deal. That's their choice." He swallows and the collar clamped to his neck shifts ever so slightly. "You'd think they would know that by now, but it always comes down to this. They beg for their life back, but I never even took it in the first place. Ha - !" The Sin barks, coughs, then quickly returns the cigarette back to his mouth.
"I give them every opportunity. And don't get me wrong, some do. They turn their lives around, take what I've given them, and go out for more. Hope," slurred are his words; his voice merely strings and whispers of smoke. "-there's nothing wrong with having too much hope. Yet, yours would say that's somehow a bad thing and that they deserve whatever's coming for them."
The cigarette shrinks under that need of his and its orange glow dampens. "Kind of a rotten deal, don't you think?"
It wasn't so bad as all of that. Oh, indeed, the most righteous of his brethren would sneer and snort at the very idea of actually enjoying the company of the monkeys. The very idea akin to the worst kind of blasphemy. In the end, Murmur had to wonder what it was they were so afraid of? Was it their own flaws, reflected back at them in these strange fragile, confused creatures? Was it the realization that no matter how far humans fell, they could still hold such grace in their short, miserable lives? Of course none of that was of particular import at the moment, he had a mission and one that very well might end with a lost pair of wings if he weren't careful.
Despite how Greed might feel about the holy host, there were those among them who still remembered their roles, and that at their core they're all just different sides of the same coin.
"Do I?" The stranger inquired as he'd ducked back out of the window to readjust, reaching in to grasp beams just above the window's frame to brace himself as he slid backwards in through the narrow opening and landing almost silently on the floor. "I suppose it has been a long few nights." Not chained and tormented, perhaps, but busy. Then again, Thrones didn't sleep. That nature resulted in its own kind of weariness with time. "Yes I had noticed that," He quipped at the remark of how Greed came to be in this situation, a bottle of ice cold water pressed against his chained hand. It wasn't much, but it might get some life back into him while Murmur went to work.
For his part he wasn't particularly remarkable to look upon. Average, almost aggressively so, and yet he still had that strange air of something not quite human about him that often marked his kind. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, a little lighter and a little more graceful than his form might imply him capable of. Perhaps it was the way he never quite made full eye contact, often seeming focused on something else miles away, or listening for a voice only he could hear. He did pause, tilting his head to the side in an almost bird-like mannerism as he listened to ensure that none had yet detected his invasion. "As I am certain you are well aware, my brethren are not well known for their manners. I, on the other hand, do still find value in them. It isn't poison, by the way." He'd not be cruel enough to bless water he was offering a demon to drink.
After a brief tour of the room, nose crinkled in mild disdain at the smell his eyes finally fell fully on Greed's battered form. While his expression remained one impossible to read, there was clearly some calculation going on there. Now that he was in, how exactly did he propose to get the demon out without drawing any attention? That's going to be the tricky part. That, and breaking down the chains and wards without removing an arm or two in the process.
"Mankind has ever had the flaw of placing the blame on all but their own heart, their own choices. It is the cost of free-will after all. However, I am no Dominion or Principality, it is not my calling to judge. Judgement is not why I am here tonight." In other words, Greed didn't really need to explain himself. The wretched soul that thought to ransom a Sin off to the holy host in order to save himself would be dealt with by those suited to the task. Suffice it to say the discovery of Greed's escape would not look good on his head.
"You presume much, Avarice." There's a lot of proclaiming going on there, and not a lot of asking. Murmur would have expected more curiosity, but perhaps his current state had left the Sin bitter and jaded. Well, time enough to correct that error, not that the strange angel was making it particularly obvious what he was up to just yet.
He set to work, first breaking down the angel captor's wards and replacing them with his own, intricate designs drawn in simple chalk over stone walls and rotten door. Wards to silence, wards to disguise the presence of those within. And most of all wards to delay detection while the seals that kept Greed immobilized were systematically dismantled. It would take some time, and the chains would be last, as Murmur had enough presence of mind to make a show of his truce lest the demon try to take a piece of him for his efforts. It never hurt to be cautious.
The Sin's eyes slant to try to catch a glimpse of him. It's true, he isn't that much to look at and that's probably been done intentionally. Murmur is made to blend in; to slip and pass shoulder to shoulder with all that lived and died. Because while they may be two halves of the same coin, there are differences and this? It just happens to be one of them. Their stark contrasts and strict roles made to keep them on different sides of the proverbial chessboard.
However, he's never been a fan of establishments or rules, nor of clear definitions. Absolute good doesn't exist. Absolute evil is a farce. And ah, ah, there really is no such thing as no such thing.
Greed's eyelids are heavy as he feels the cool touch of plastic against his skin. "That so? Been busy?" The sarcasm in his voice laces with a tired kind of humor and his mouth cracks again, showing his smile to a world that's been missing him. Despite the just and righteous trying their very best to rinse him out, his existence still lingers on. It pulses in the hearts of men and women alike, driving them to their desires and letting them feast upon them as shamelessly as they pleased. No, no amount of battering, no amount of burying him, could ever bleach that kind of want out. It was natural. It was divine. A pure thing as toxic as venom yet so sweet to swallow.
The cigarette in his fingers snuffs out without his constant attention and the Sin lets it fall into a wet smear below. "Ha - ! I'm pretty sure I got that when I ran into the little pissant earlier. Glad to know some of you can still keep things civilized," Greed's expression smooths over. "-hmn?" He starts, but then the bottle's in his peripheral and Hell save him, he's thirsty.
What little control he may have had just minutes ago goes out the window as soon as his teeth find the lip of the drink. His jaws snap at the plastic, causing it to buckle and deflate under the pressure. In all the quiet around them, the sound itself is alarming. The bottle creaks and whines; air pockets bubble and pop as he has his fill. And oh, does he have his fill. Trickles of water glide across his skin and rinse away the blood to form pink, thinning trails down his jaw line. His desperation, if nothing else, brought to the physical.
When he finally comes up, he's breathless. "Ahh." Greed's chest rises and falls as he catches up with the adrenaline. Where there had been cat scratches in his throat, a new kind of soothing takes hold. It doesn't sting as much to swallow even with the clamps of steel pressing against his throat. A minor relief, but one he'll gladly take without hesitation. He nips gently at the inside of his mouth as he listens to Murmur work. "Even if it was poison, you and I both know it wouldn't do very much. Besides, I'd like to think we're on better terms than that."
He tests his wrist again and manages to twirl one of his fingers. "Didn't mean to offend. Can't blame me, given the circumstances." The angel is right: mortals did have a habit of pushing the blame. "Figured it's only fair to give you my side of the story before you do something you might regret." He hums low in his chest and a deep vibration tickles in his core. While Murmur is nothing but silence, his work isn't, and Greed focuses in on what he can: the way the chalk softly scratches lines, how the plastic water bottle tries to reform back into its former shape. Noise, he realizes, is something he's been severely lacking all these months, and he can't help the small hiss of a laugh that teases behind his teeth.
Because isn't it so fucking ironic that his words always seem to come back to bite him.
Greed lowers his finger to try to feel out the table's supports. "So, what's the plan, then? After all this," he gestures with his left hand and flicks his wrist to illustrate his point. "-it's not like you can hide me forever. Eventually, they'll figure out I'm gone. Not that I really care what happens to yours, but I don't think it's very fair if you end up on the chopping block for it."
Murmur has made himself to blend it. Oh, so many couldn't resist that unearthly beauty, the allure of shining the brightest among mortal kind even when they were on missions it would be detrimental to do so. Murmur found value in disappearing, in being underestimated and so he was here, being very easy to underestimate. Not particularly tall, not particularly striking, and yet even with all that there was still an air. A quiet certainty of action that was just a touch on the edge of unnerving, with such sharp focus and deftness of hand it would be easy to presume that this angel, whosoever he may be, was not one prone to failure in whatever it was he set his mind to.
He deigns not to answer the first question, whether he believed it rhetorical or he simply didn't want to was equally left to be pondered without reply. He was busy, after all, trying to make sure his current task wasn't interrupted. The comment about them being on better terms did earn the faintest hint of an amused glance from the angel, who continued to hold his silence for the moment. It wouldn't last long, of course, but Greed had been locked down there long enough he surely had plenty to say.
"I am no executioner, Avarice. I find such methods distasteful." Not to mention it wouldn't do any good, he knew as well as Greed that eliminating the manifestation wouldn't rid the world of its existence. Instead it would leave a vacuum, something all consuming and unpredictable until a new Sin came into existence. For Greed would always exist, must always exist, it was in the nature of all created beings, and could not be so easily expunged. They were fools, driven by their own pride and greed to think otherwise.
"Simple, really, we get you back to where you belong. They may be bold enough to draw you into a trap, but even they are not fool enough for a direct assault. To execute an act of war that would surely necessitate a response would plunge Heaven and Hell into full-scale hostilities once more. To risk tearing the mortal world apart would be too great a cost, even for your captor." Ah, the concern was appreciated, and Murmur did offer Greed a brief flash of teeth, something like a smile and a snarl trapped in one strange gesture. Amusement still twinkled in his eyes as he finished with his warding. A few softly spoken words and there was a brief flash of light throughout the chalk drawings before they faded into the concrete and wood alike, invisible yet humming with power. That would do for the silence, now for the restraints.
For this he began plucking reagents out of pockets, some of which he less than politely stacked on Greed's chest with a muttered "Hold these," And no further explanation given. Though he did pause, and smirking faintly at his own joke added: "And try to hold still." As if Greed had a choice in the matter.
Idly, he taps the tips of his fingers together in a slow, drawling rhythm. Being forcibly removed, pinned down, and pulled out of the game has never suited him. And while it hasn't been that long in the grand scheme of things, there's a sensation of something he can't quite place at first. An itch, a trembling, tickling deep in the pocket of his chest. Greed's teeth set quietly together. No, he does know the feeling after all, doesn't he? And it's as simple as his namesake: desperation. The kind that climbs the walls and claws the backside of his skull with a devotion both thunderous and grinding.
A snuff of sulfur puffs on his palm. "It's just Greed, angel," he lulls his voice, making it vibrate in his chest as low as a heater's rumbling exhaust. The smoke in his hand is dense; something thick, heavy, and yet weightless all the same. The Sin flicks his wrist. The smog in his hand gradually peels between his fingers and as it dissipates into thinning strands and eventual nothing, a small matchbox appears out of the gloom. For the most part, it's nondescript - an object so benign, it'd easily be missed.
Greed touches his nail to the side. "Are you sure about that?" How he asks is distant; like a man reminiscing about a story long gone. "You and I both know there's those of us who'd want that kind of reckoning. They've been after it for years." Again, he maps out his lower lip with his tongue; his expression both ancient and snide. "Who's to say this isn't part of the plan? C'mon, you're not that naïve."
Scrrch. The Sin's finger scratches and the matchbox ignites. It doesn't got up in flames like paper is supposed to. Instead, the top of it pops with a flurry of sparks - like a snap from a fire that hasn't quite died yet. "Then again, I've been wrong before. Ah - " The heat quickly dies down. What's left is a simple design on the top. Lines of red and ashy black sketch out what appears to be an impish creature of sorts. A caricature reminder of who and what he truly is.
Greed shakes the box once. "For the trouble," he starts back in with an offer. "-figured it could come in handy with whatever bullshit you have planned." Because he couldn't even begin to guess what the angel's up to. Devils have a different system with a whole different set of rules. Sure, there are similarities, but just like any other language, there's been variations and slight alterations over the centuries. Time, as well as their separate domains, have just increased their lack of mutual understanding.
When Murmur dumps his cache on his chest, the Sin rolls his eyes into the back of his head. Another clear sign of his discontent. "Not like I really have a choice, do I? Pissant - " His tongue lashes at his teeth, but the smile on his face says differently. Of course, Murmur couldn't help himself. He's always been like that. A little snark, a little spice, in all the Heavenly Father's pomp and circumstance.
It was, and is, a refreshing change.
Greed pushes the matchbox closed and the image on the top fades back into a matte black. "Can't keep my word on that, but it's not like I've been given a lot of wiggle room, lovely." His jaw curls. Even with the odds stacked against him, his disposition hasn't changed too much. He's still vicious, still wanting - a creature of habit through and through. "Just hope we don't end up making a habit of this, or I'll have to start asking a little more out of you."
Desperation is a rather potent motivator, is it not? Yet Murmur requires just a little more patience, they'll be out soon enough with very little in the way of explanation or trail to follow. So long as he remains diligent and careful to cover his tracks. And Murmur is not one who leaves things to simple chance.
"Very well, just Greed." There's that cheek again, spoken in a soft monotone it's almost impossible to pick up the gentle humor there. Despite his sass, he continues his work. Taking reagents one at a time to begin applying them to the iron bindings holding Greed in place. The trick was simple enough, utilizing methods available and known both to mortal and demonkind alike it would leave a trail unlikely to suggest an angelic presence. Something to throw off the hunt from his trail directly, not that Murmur wouldn't lay low until the heat died down all the same.
"I am," For the moment, busy as he was, he only glanced at the offered match box with interest. "Your captor is arrogant, not stupid. Others on the other hand..." They would be pursued, yes, but those he could redirect more easily. "I may require your spark here in a moment." He just snorted at the comment about being naïve, of course he isn't. And that's why they're not going to be leading their pursuers straight back to Greed's den. That would be foolish.
Once he finally finished laying out the trap he began gathering up his supplies stuffing them back into hidden coat pockets like some kind of wearable bag of holding. Only then did he finally reach out to take the offered match box, eyeing it curiously. "What's this?" Even while he asked he proffered a simple small slip of paper, no larger than a grocery receipt, scribbled with incantations and arcane runes. "Light this, if you would please, then hold very still." He's going to blow the bindings and he'd prefer it if that didn't come with too much damage to Greed in the process. He'll heal, it would just be inconvenient.
One more derisive look. "If I keep having to come to your rescue you're going to start owing me for the trouble."
The corner of his mouth quirks up a bit and under the basement's haze (the soft glow of a light bulb humming, the smear of an overcast sky pouring in, the ever-present hang of cigarette and hellish smoke alike), his face takes on a completely different look. Something softer, something amused. Like a man finally getting the end of a long-winded joke.
Greed's throat bobs under his collar. "Ha - ! What a fucking smart ass," a wheeze strangles his voice. "No, they're not stupid, you've got that right. But it's a little ironic - I never did like Pride very much." He practically kisses the air when he sucks in a breath; the noise behind his teeth, a stinging kind of snap. "Funny that yours always seem so wrapped up in it."
Pride was the oldest, so it really shouldn't have been that much of a surprise. After all, wasn't that how this whole thing started? A bit of pride, too much ambition. In the end, it had meant the collapse of it all. And while there had been those who fell to their demise, they had crept out of the craters left in the aftermath. Living distortions of all that was good, twisted and craving for eternity.
The Sin's hands splay out with as much of a shrug as he can manage. "It's a matchbox, but that's not what you're really asking, is it?" His fingers stroke the air. "You can call it a calling card. I only offer it to a few people, so consider it a favor. Equivalent exchange." Greed's eyes turn to try to take a look at the other. He can see a bit more of his work now: the small slip of paper, the various scribbles written on its surface. At this angle, they come through all backwards - like a passing sign in a rearview mirror. He can read the gist of it, but it takes him a moment. And as his cat-slit eyes flick over what's written, he can't help but be impressed. Leave no track, no trace. And ah, ah, ah, how faithful Murmur truly was.
"Oh - ? A please? That's a first." Nevertheless, Greed snaps his left thumb and another wandering flame trills over his fingernail. "Starting to like me a little better?" His smile wrinkles his face, making his lips thin out and his teeth expose themselves to the dim. He raises his lit finger to his mouth and as it touches his lip, the Sin shoos a low exhale out from between the cracks of his jaws; his look, like a coy librarian trying to quiet a rowdy bunch of children. The reaction that follows is immediate. The fire bursts out, its fingers reaching delicately to snatch at the piece of paper.
Murmur echoes that faint smirk, lost all too quickly to the haze and gloom of the basement cell. Still, the faint humor remained in his tone all the same. For all the fear and hate his brothers possessed toward the purified incarnations of Sin, this one wasn't so bad. Some of the others would have been unbearable in close quarters this long.
"It is among our greatest flaws," He concedes, and there's the faintest touch of sorrow to that. It's again whisked away by the business-like nature that seems to dominate this one. It's something he tries not to dwell on, the horror of watching his brethren fall, the pain of all that loss. These things happened so long ago and yet the wounds never do fully heal, do they? It's not something he's going to dwell on now. There's a job to be done and Murmur is very good at keeping it professional.
He doesn't answer the obvious question, only inspects the matchbox closer upon the revelation of what it truly was. With a sound of quiet approval through his nose he tucks it into an inner pocket on his coat, moving to resume the task at hand.
"As I said, I am not without my manners." He feigns haughtiness, but it's not very convincing, nor does he maintain the look for long. With the flames sparked he lets the paper catch, it spits and crackles far more violently than any tiny sheet of paper had a right to do. Quick as you will he touches the paper one by one to each prepared brace and with a crack and brilliant flash of light each blasts apart. One by one by one and soon enough Greed the bindings are broken and Greed can finally free himself. Once done he flicked the remaining ashes away from his gloved fingers, stepping back to allow Greed the room to extract himself from his bindings.
The relief that washes over him is one he hasn't felt in a long time. The sound of the chains cracking, the noise of steel collapsing on itself, the finality of it all. The Sin's mouth stretches wide across his face. It splits his expression from ear to ear, the curl of it pure in all its wickedness. There's no hidden agenda - no false pretenses. No, it's just plain satisfaction and as the last bits of metal slip from his skin, Greed's body visibly trembles. It's light at first: a jitter in his fingers. A quiver in his chest. Until, he slams his head back against the table with an audible thud and while his lungs fill (and do they fill), the laugh that billows of his chest seems to punch into the ceiling's very foundation. The sudden onslaught shaking filth and rust from their slumber in a billow of reddish gray.
Greed's eyes snap open, the whites of them wide and gaping. "HAHAHA - !" Where the chains had left their mark, his skin quickly begins to repair; the lapping of red electric and sizzling hisses effectively licking his wounds clean. The Sin flexes his fingers. "Oh, you do know how to work your magic, don't you?" He asks and his body slowly rises up from the table like reanimated ghoul. He tests his neck by rolling it to one side and then the other.
Cnch, cnch.
"Ah, that's much better." Greed shoves his palm deep into the muscle to push away any remaining kinks. Of course, he'll need a little more time to be at his full potential. But for now, he's functional. Upright. And as the venom from the binding slowly wanes, he can sense that spark of his igniting again; his core, all but calling back to him from the bowels below.
The Sin shifts, allowing his sharp-cut heels to clack against the basement floor. "Mnn. I guess we should get out of here, shouldn't we?" He tests his footing, stumbles, then rights himself again. "Ah, might still not be 100% here, friend. But first - " He licks the corner of his mouth, pushing a dry spot off to the side. His captors had done a good job denying him not just of his freedom, but of his things as well. And maybe, that had been the entire point. Choke avarice out, starve it, until it was nothing more than a husk.
Greed saunters about the basement towards a locker in the back corner. He doesn't bother trying the door, but instead shoves his fist through the steel at the side, leaving a toothy, bent-metal hole. "Not about to let them have what isn't theirs. I'm sure you can understand," he hisses. From inside, he pulls out a few things: a leather jacket with a fur-collar trim, a set of keys, and a black checkbook with no markings or company logo to distinguish it from anything else.
He gingerly tosses on his jacket with some effort and pockets the rest. "Now, we can go. Though, you might wanna be quick about it." A humming trill tickles the back of his throat, and Greed rolls another matchbox out from the inside of his sleeve. It catches between the points of his nails like a promise.
Because steal from avarice and Lord, oh Lord, you might get burned.
It occurred several moments too late that it might have been prudent to add sound dampening to his many wards. They would grant them some time, hold the door fast long enough for an escape but he certainly hadn't expected the demon to go howling like that. He winces, eyes darting warily to the ceiling as he strains his hearing for any response. It's hard to say with the storm raging outside, but if there were anyone within earshot they most certainly had run alarmingly short on time.
The angel does shoot Greed a firmly "must you?" look, at both the laughter and his trotting about collecting his things. He lets out something of a frustrated sigh, but so long as Greed didn't dally overmuch he wouldn't verbally complain until it became truly dire. "Do try to be swift," He hisses, already moving back to the window to vault himself up and begin scrabbling out. Still somehow managing to make even the less dignified escape look somehow graceful. Angels are cheaters like that. Bracing himself against the frame he offers down a hand.
"I might want to be quick?" He scoffs, gesturing for Greed to hurry up so he can pull him out. "Take any more time and I might begin to suspect you want to hear the trumpets sounding." He's only being snappish because now the chase was really on, and as swift as Murmur could flee by himself it would be much more difficult to pull Greed along with him. It would be extremely hard to explain why he was carrying a demon should he be caught in the act.
All the while, the angel's pleas fall on deaf ears. He's fixated on everything else: the way the lights glow as if they're trapped in an endless fog. How the basement sweat feels under his heels, slick and cold. The smell of it all - smoke, sulfur, dirt, and old wood settling in on themselves like old company. Greed fingers his sunglasses when he pulls them out from his pocket and as the matchbox in his hands explodes into brilliant oranges and foul, black pitches, he carefully places the shades over his face; their lenses all but caught up in the blaze of it all.
"Hmn. Yeah," when he finally answers, he's distant. A man caught in a completely different thought. The Sin shrugs his shoulders. He follows Murmur towards the window and the matchbox sails over him and behind his back. The fire doesn't take immediately. It leaves plenty of time; enough for him to scramble up and out the shallow window, his body twisting and writhing as nimble as a serpent squirming out of a trap. It's only when the square of his heel finds a crumbling piece of brick, does he finally pop loose.
And oh, isn't it poetic? Sin itself, back in the swill of it all.
Greed plants the flats of his hands into a puddle of water. "Might be more exciting otherwise - tch." Crnch, and another bone in his neck slides into place. The catching fire in the basement presses faintly against the glass. What had been murky before is now a low glow; a fever of reds and yellows licking where they can and setting beams alight in scales of burnt-crisp destruction.
The Sin staggers out of the muck on one foot, then two. Combined with the steady onslaught of rain, he looks like a drowning victim. His hair flattens across his forehead, the leather of both his pants and jacket cling to him for dear life. Greed casually shoves his thumb into a nostril. A snort later, and the last of the caked-in blood sizzles on the pavement.
"Kind of hard to be as fast as usual friend. Eh - " He checks the sky. Overhead, the clouds roll out their frustration. Lightning sharpens across the skyline like a warning and a low-howling wind batters the alleyway, turning trash into a concentrated funnel.
Greed shakes his head and runs his hand quickly through his hair to spike it out. "Lead the way, then. I'm sure someone's bound to visit pretty soon. Made sure it wouldn't all catch right away, but I only gave us a few minutes."
Of course he was going to burn it. Why wouldn't he burn it? Damn it all. Murmur could put out the fire, the Sin's power wasn't enough to overwhelm his own in this moment but he won't. It only makes sense in the grand scheme of things, but there's still a part of him that grimaces at watching a house of God turn to ash. No sense crying over spilled communion, they did bring this upon themselves.
Greed's display was very dramatic, he's sure, but Murmur had far more to worry about than to appreciate the aesthetic of the fire's glow glinting off darkened lenses or the winking flash of a baleful light in the storm. No, he has to worry about an escape route.
"Do you have a... what are they called? Vehicle?" Is that the word? He thinks it may be. They'd do much better in that than on foot. While the water drenches, soaks, and clings to the Sin it doesn't quite seem to seep so on the angel. Unlike so many of his brethren this one is not a being of fire, but of storms and ice. The sea and the rain are equally his domain, and while that water does dampen him, it rolls off him much as it does the feathers of a duck. He is quite decidedly in his element, something that will grant them a little cover for a time longer yet.
"Neither you nor I are capable of fighting off an enraged Holy Host, we are best slinking in the gutter out of their lofty gaze." Most would find that humiliating, but Murmur has never been a fan of Pride. He will do whatever is necessary, no matter the cost. He turns heel to begin leading them away from the crime scene. The mortals will catch on soon, better to be well out of their way before questions have to be answered. "You know this world better than I, where might one go should they wish to disappear?"
"Didn't exactly come here with one," Greed eases in. While he has noticed the angel's rather uncanny sense of luck, he doesn't say anything about it. Angels and their kin had different tricks than him and his. They'd been dealt different cards, hell a different deck in some cases. Murmur's inability to feel the storm about him (least not in the literal sense) fell into one of those variations. A specialty reserved for him and others like him to blend in with what life really gave without having to suffer through the discomforts of it.
Though, even that seems to have a catch.
The Sin clicks his tongue behind his teeth. "Follow me." He doesn't wait or even bother to check to see if the angel is following him. Rather, he appears to be more focused; tuned in. Like a big cat with hunger in its belly and ah, ah, ah, is there prey to be had.
Greed slouches against the rain, his shoes and heels making the slosh and muck pluck themselves into deep, steaming pockets behind him. While he exactly doesn't have a vehicle at the ready, that doesn't mean he can't find one. And in a town as winding as this, in a place full of empty holes to stick him in, it wouldn't be hard to find something of use.
Another shudder of lightning splinters above them, turning the sky into a purpling bruise. "As for that other thing, just leave it to me, hmn? Sometimes I wonder if you actually trust me, handsome." A shivering streetlamp surges above the narrow street they're on in a gassy yellow and while the bulb struggles to keep alight, the Sin's body visibly stiffens. He's caught something in his eye. Something suitable, right, and perhaps, God's chosen aren't the only ones with a little bit of luck.
Greed's arm shoots out from his side in a sudden, violent snap and the flesh on his hand quickly disappears. From his fingertips upward, a second skin begins to crawl itself into place. It turns his nails into talons, his knuckles bulbous and boney. The look of it like an oil slick with the ability to defend itself. The Sin lets out a soft whistle. "Looks like your prayers have been answered," he hums before the block of his fist meets the driver's side window. With a splintering crack and a sprinkle of shattered glass, he's in. All hands, all want, clambering to take what's his.
He shoves a button on the inside of the door and the lock on the passenger's side clicks open with a soft plunk. "After you," he slurs. The angel may have his perks against mother nature, but him? His have always been with the material. The needs of mankind, the desires of them, all but molding under his fingertips. Greed rips opens the plastic console under the steering wheel with little more than a pop and squeal of plastic, leaving the insides as open and raw as freshly killed carcass. Half outside the car, sprawled and stretched, he gets to work. A dash of hellfire there, an impish tweak here - a devilish mechanic, engrossed in his work.
Finally, the Sin leans below the steering wheel. He extends his tongue between two particular wires and a small electric current buzzes over his teeth. Greed grips the upper curve of the wheel to pull himself into the driver's seat, and he yanks the door shut. "It'll take a while to get there. Just don't judge them too much, hmn? They are mine, but they won't bother you unless you give 'em a reason to. Ah - "
A pleased sort of smile graces his face. It lights him up from the inside out; a breath of sorts, filling him up with all that fire, all that wickedness, that he had been missing. Greed thumbs a built-in lighter into the dash and as he turns to check the rearview, he haphazardly throws the car in reverse. Mud and water screams murder under the wheels as he wildly jerks the vehicle out of its parking spot. A second later, and he punches into first gear, forcing the car to zigzag out of the muck; its swinging spin, like a fishtail darting under the tide.
"I expected as much." It was still worth an ask, to place the idea in the Sin's mind that they would both do better to stop moving on foot. Not out of laziness mind, angels did not lack in stamina, but if they were to flee the eyes of their would be captors it might be best to make more haste than foot. The hounds of Heaven would be on their trail before long, best to hide their tracks with all means at their disposal.
"Trust? A tall order in times like these," He scoffs, but despite the monotone it's good natured coming from the frosty angel. He plays the distance and dismissiveness well, and yet here he is sloshing through the mud after the Sin whom he could have easily left to his own devices once the trap was sprung. Could have left him to his fate as well, though that would have proven to be a headache for all further down the line. The universe will always seek balance, a new Sin will rise, and that one might not be as accommodating as the one he's accustomed to.
Ah, their chariot awaits. Gleaming brilliant in the flash of lightning and sputtering of street lamps, just asking for the taking. Of course Murmur feigns a disappointed look at the act of theft and window breaking, but it bore no more venom than the rest of his haughty act did. It was merely the act of going through the motions, behaving as he should in the presence of Sin rather than with any real feeling behind it. Righteousness was reserved for very special occasions, and he did ask for a vehicle. Of course, he was grateful Greed broke the window on his own side, so he can spend the drive being wet and uncomfortable.
While Greed works away on getting the beast running Murmur makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He can't drive, so it's not like he'd try to anyway, he also doesn't bother with seatbelts because what are those anyway? So while Greed works, he's popped open the glove box and is taking the time to scribble arcane symbols inside with that chalk produced from within his coat once more. Might as well do a little work while the Sin's busy. He can ward it up more later, once they're out of the thick of it.
"Them?" He asks, ignoring the implication of him being judgmental. He already told Greed that's not his wheelhouse. "Come now, you should know by now I do not make a habit of instigation." He is very polite he'll have you know. As for the driving? He does cast Greed a sidelong glance as if to ask 'must you?' He won't protest, not out loud, but he will make faces of disapproval. "Try not to roll this over on the way, would you?" It wouldn't kill them, but it would be inconvenient.
The car's headlights expand like eyes when he flicks the switch. They open up the once bogged down alleyway with all of its slush and muck into something visible. The shadows chase back into the cracks, the rain sloshes from the windshield wipers like some sort of ritualistic cleansing. Of course, he doesn't notice any of it or (at best), he simply doesn't care. Instead, he's focused on the physical of it all. The whiplash of rain and how it's changed from something bitter to something freeing; how the engine rumbles under his frantically moving fingertips as they click and clack atop the sway of the wheel.
Greed plays footsie with the clutch and the gas as his free hand shoves the gears, effectively reversing his fate and throwing them forward in one fell swoop. At first, he seems to miss the angel's questions entirely - his attention drifting to the sensation of it all. He lets the cracked-tooth window spit rain in his face, he cranks the car a bit faster than is certainly legal. Everything. It's always boiled down to that simplicity: everything. It floods through him as entrapping as an addict to their substance of choice. And like a man chasing his poison, his thrill is just as deadly and just as plainly visible on his face.
The Sin's mouth warps into a lunatic's sneer and faint trails of black-rich smoke peel through his teeth. He starts in again with a small bark of laughter. "Ha - ! A tall order, huh? I suppose," his tongue lashes out and the tip languidly begins to split in a rake of hot, red coals. "Can't blame me for trying. Here - " He fishes a phone out from the pocket of his vest and haphazardly tosses it into Murmur's lap. "-dial 003-12-7. If someone picks up the line, just say Ouroboros. It'll connect you to our next stop."
Wildly, he lets the wheel spin through his fingertips and the car bounces onto a main road. "You do know how you to use one of those, right? Nevermind." He waves his wrist and the black screen statics. At first, it merely blues out in the dark; the sudden onslaught of fake light and bright colors all but washing the inside of the vehicle in a soft, foggy haze. The Sin makes a few, simple gestures with his fingers and as traffic lights blare their greens, their yellows, and reds, the phone begins keying in the numbers one at a time:
003-12-7
Greed takes another erratic turn onto the freeway. "As for the other thing - " He begins while the phone connects to the radio of the car. For a while, a dial tone is all he gets; its tolling noise a constant heartbeat waiting in anticipation. When it clicks to a receiving end, he wastes no time.
"Oi, oi, oi - coming in hot, sweetheart. And I've got company this time - "
"Where the FUCK have you been!?" A male's voice practically barks through the car's sound system, making it static as the Sin carelessly plunks into a rather large pothole.
"Oh - ? Sounds like the hound's a little mad with me. C'mon, don't be like that," Greed's voice curls out of his throat like a fire trying to flirt. The skin around his neck bristles in turn and flakes of pitched soot quiver off the dip of his collarbones. "Ran into a little bit of trouble and not the usual kind."
The man through the radio's silent for a second. "What kind of trouble? Are you ok? Where are you? And what do you mean company? Greed - Boss - "
The Sin's laughter hisses from his grinning mouth, wide and smoggy. "HA - ! Oh, don't stick that tail between your legs just yet. We'll just say I had a little divine intervention - " That earns a quick sputter of curses through the speakers and Greed jovially slaps the steering wheel a few times. "No, he's not that bad. Remember what I told you? There's - "
"-no such thing as no such thing, yeah. I know - ! But can we really trust this guy? I mean we're talking about - "
"Now, no need to be rude. He's right here," Greed gestures with his hand at nothing the man on the other side of the line could possible see and that shuts up the call real quick. The sound of a shattering bottle makes its way through the receiver. Whether the Sin hears it or is, as par for the night's course, ignoring it is tough to say. "Just close up early. Get everyone who doesn't need to be there out. And - " He pauses to shoot a look at Murmur.
"-if you've got things we need, now's the time to ask."
Greed was having far too much fun driving. Fortunately Murmur didn't have enough sense of what was legal, reasonable, or safe to be concerned about it. He's immortal and nearly impossible to damage under "normal" means, so he has no real concern for his physical integrity nor Greed's. At the moment inflicting a need for additional healing might be unwise, but not something he was going to bother bringing up. He's a big demon he can look out for himself.
It was fortunate that it didn't take Greed long to remember he was dealing with someone who probably rarely, if ever, touched anything even remotely technological. When he handed Murmur the phone the angel just looked at it in deep confusion. Brows furrowed, expression one of intense puzzlement as he rolled it over in his hands trying to figure out what exactly he meant by "dial" and how one was supposed to do such a thing anyway? To him it seemed nothing more than a shiny flat rectangle of plastic and glass, utterly alien as anything beyond something one might use to prop up an unbalanced table.
Whatever gestures and magic incantations Greed used to activate the device served in no way to clarify how it worked, and Murmur just held it up pinched delicately between his fingers like he expected it to explode or something. Eyes darting between the object and where he thought one of the speakers was, and Greed, as absolutely nothing manifested to answer the questions reeling in his mind. What was this, how did it work, what was this trickery? And who was this Greed was talking to anyway?
Murmur was going to protest them continuing to talk about him like he wasn't there, but Greed took care of that before his confusion slowed down long enough to get words out. Okay, so, whatever this strange rectangle was it facilitated ranged communication. That wasn't impossible to grasp, the how wasn't necessarily important at the immediate moment even if the question would chew him up all night until he got an answer.
It took him several more moments to realize he was being invited to speak. "Ah..." Hold on, the angel is rebooting. "Well. I suppose if you want to remain difficult to find I could arrange something. I will require goat's blood. A quantity sufficient for the size of your domicile." You're gonna need a lot, Greed, a whole lot. "Graveyard dirt, and soot I... think you can manage without additional preparation." Glancing at how much Greed soots all on his own, they'll manage that just fine.
An exit sign passes overhead warning them of the next runoff from the highway. Greed turns back to the road. "Did you get all that, Dol? Think you and the rest can round up what we need?" His hand yanks the lighter from the dash and another cigarette appears on his lip, ready to light. "Dol?"
"Yeah, fuck, yeah I got it. I don't know where the fuck we're going to find some of this, but I'm on it. I'll send Martel up to the butcher on the other side of town. She gets along better with the woman there anyway - " The Sin inhales his smoke as the man rattles on and the tip fumes a toxic orange-blue. "As for the rest of it, it's gunna take us some time. Boss, can you at least tell me what the fuck is going on?"
Greed shoves the lighter back into the console with an audible plnk. "I thought I was pretty clear about that. Don't tell me you're going deaf - " Again, his comment gets him a string-sputter of swears through the receiver. "-oi, oi, oi. All right, all right, calm down. The deal went south." He breathes in and the black coating on his throat begins to stretch upward, threatening both his jawline and ear. "The last one - the investor. Turns out he has friends with good information. Caught me off guard."
"Bradley? How in the shitting hell did he get his hands on - ?"
"Doesn't matter," the devil chimes back in, clipping the questioning off at its head. "-we'll be there in another 30 minutes. Just make sure you get it all handled, huh?"
"We'll take care of it. Just .. " The man trails off as if he's trying to find his words and pick them carefully. "Just be careful, would you? I know you'll be fine and nothing's taken you out yet, but - "
The cigarette shrinks in the Sin's teeth; his grin and insatiable hunger making short work of the tobacco. "Easy pup or I'll start thinking you've missed me. See you soon." With that, he waves his wrist and the call severs. Greed tiredly slaps his turn signal. "Sorry about all that. Dol tends to get a little frantic when things aren't ideal, but he's not so bad. A worrier sure, but he'll get you what you need."
He guides the car onto an offramp. Away from the highway, the signs of visible settlement quickly thicken. Houses and wooded off-shoots give way to bigger buildings and shopping centers. Wherever the Sin's made his home in this world, it's where people are. And while most places have either closed for the night or are on their way out, it's clear that he's planted himself in the midst of it all: a forest, a hiding spot, of steel, concrete, and lights that never truly go out.
A demon in a proverbial haystack.
Greed takes the main drag with little care of speed. "Try not to be too much for them, will you? They don't tend to like your kind very much." Another corner, a third. The deeper they go, the tighter the streets become until they're nothing more than one-way roads splintering out as confusing as a ball of knotted string. When he finally slows, it's under a brilliant, red light that he creeps. The sign above is damp under the weather; the paint of it old and well-loved. The Sin jumps the car up onto the curb as one of the floodlights strobes intermittently.
He cuts the engine. "Welcome to The Devil's Nest, angel."
"I would suggest trying a goat and a graveyard, respectively," Murmur muttered dryly, unimpressed with the lackey's complaints. He's already stuck his neck out further than he should have, and having to babysit more than one demon didn't exactly sit well with him. He shot Greed a look that clearly implied he thought the Sin's henchmen were morons, and continued. "It must be goat's blood, understand? No substitutes, no mixing. Unless of course you wish to experience what a smiting feels like. Oh, and a paint brush. Clean one." Can't be mixing unknown compounds into spell work, it will throw the whole balance off.
After that he's content to shut up and let Greed deal with his yapping comrade. Once the call was over and the strange device no longer needed he just set it in a convenient enough looking compartment, casting a sidelong glance at the Sin.
"You are certain they're competent?" They didn't sound competent. "And if I may... what was that about someone getting their hands on something?" Murmur didn't miss any of that, though he did note it had been cut off before Dol could say too much. He expected he'd be brushed off, but it didn't hurt to try.
Thankfully Greed knew how to hide himself, well... as well as he could among a world like this with little knowledge of the arcane. That said it would only do so much good, their adversaries wouldn't be traveling by vehicle or foot, they'd be traveling by air and use senses far above those of mortal kind to hunt their quarry. They had to work quick, and Murmur would have to make it harder for them to be sniffed out by Heaven's own forces. Hell might have their hounds... Heaven didn't need them. Meticulously Murmur memorized their streets, their signs, and whatever landmarks he could on their trip. He'd need to know how to get back there, for once he was finished with is work it would also become difficult for him to perceive.
Greed's comments about him being "too much" for his crew only earned another one of those flat looks. He'll be exactly as much as he pleases, thank you very much. "I am doing you and yours a favor, if you'll recall." So they're just going to have to deal with it, whether or not they like him. Besides, he was there to do a job, not make friends.
Finally at a stop Murmur opened his door, pausing to sniff the air before stepping out, nose wrinkled in distaste. Crawling with demons it set his teeth on edge and prickled every alarm bell in his senses. He'd tolerate it, of course, but that didn't mean he was any more comfortable being there than they were going to be having him around. He gestured for Greed to lead the way. "Best you introduce me." So they knew better than to start anything. Murmur wasn't one for a fight, that didn't mean he wouldn't defend himself should the need arise.
The driver's side door swings open with a brisk press of his heel. He practically kicks it wide, and all of the rain, all the gloom, comes flooding back. But unlike before, the chill's pointedly missing. Now, it's humid. A temperate, almost Cuban sigh pours into the car, bringing in a sweet, hard-to-discern smell.
It's the scent of the living: their foods and drinks, their fumes and industries, their nights and their lives washing over in a wave of cohabitation.
Greed shakes his cigarette and a spiral of smoke meets the fog like the embrace of friends meeting after a long departure. "What? Oh, that," he starts in while his body lifts itself out of the car. Much like before, his movements are ghoulish; he's heavy and light, tense and yet oh-so at ease. The Sin tiredly shrugs his shoulder while he passes under the roof of the car. "That's a long story. And like you said, we don't exactly have a lot of time."
Exposed to the weather, his smoke threatens to go out. The tip of it shivers under the neon overhang - a heartbeat more, and it could die out forever. Yet, it never does. Forcibly, the heat hangs on despite it all, and Greed idly shoos the driver's door closed. "Ha - !" He barks, forcing another peel of ash to shed from his throat. "That's a little harsh, huh? You haven't even met them yet."
He waves at something around his face before pocketing his hands and strolling toward the entrance. The alleyway he's chosen as his spot is nothing to write home about. Old, rust-toothed garbage cans stare back at the two of them like husked-out jack-o'-lanterns; their packaged insides, black and bulbous with garbage. The Sin nudges an empty bottle of something out of the way and as it scratches into a corner somewhere, he pauses.
"There's really only a few you need to know about," his back to Murmur, Greed begins to list things off on his fingers. "Dol's a hellhound and a pretty good one too. He's just a bit excitable. Martel's got a little bit of snake in her, so try to keep on her good side. Bido's harmless, just keep an eye on your valuables. As for Roa - " He trails off, and the silence fills with every clip and clop of his heels as he makes his way downward. "- he's a bit bullheaded, if you get what I mean. Silent type. He won't bother you unless you make him bother you. Other than that, if you need something brewed, it's the 'Doc you wanna talk to."
Finally, he closes in on the entrance. Whether on purpose or simply because he happened to like it, the door itself is pretty nondescript. A series of bolts lock it into place on the other side and a small slat at the top harkens back to a completely different time. The only thing of note are the candles. An arrangement of them melts softly in the corner; their blacks and golds mixing together in a raw, metal-worker's sludge.
Greed flicks out one finger and the nail on his hand curves, cutting raw sketches into the steel. "When I say three, try not to inhale. I know yours don't breathe, but trust me on this one." His hand arcs and sulfur lines begin to follow his movements. Up, down, around, sideways. The Sin breaks to put his cigarette back in his mouth. "You ready? One - "
He moves upward with his sketch and his earlier lines begin to ignite.
"Two - "
Sparks crack into life. They chase every inch of his design like a gunpowder fuse or a sparkler years past its expiration date. Whatever the source of the heat is, it's warmer than before. Stifling. White billows bleed into the steel, eating away small, hissing flecks until the small passage they're in becomes glaringly bright.
"-three."
And what crashes in is delirious. Shrill, violent static consumes the space - its presence both silent and impossibly loud; like that of an atom bomb dropped at a range far too close for comfort. For a few, horrible seconds, that's all there is: an endless white, a chamber of noise, clawing, biting, and scratching at wherever it can.
Then, comes the smell.
Putrid, raw, sweaty, sweet: they're all there, tumbled together and shaken just for good measure. The Sin makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat that's pleased, excited, and menacing at the same time; its tone akin to that of a man being both choked and willing to pay for it. When he exhales, the fantastic lights and nauseating sound fall back to nothing. Nothing save a dingy bar that (most certainly) wouldn't pass any current mortal codes.
Greed tests his neck. "AH - it's been a while since I had to do that," he takes his sunglasses from his face and swipes them once. A ceiling fan up above them trundles on its cables and as the dust and ash settles, he's met with the clambering of people. There's movement out back, soft shouts from below. The Sin weakly raises to his feet and with one hand out, he presses a single finger inside his ear.
"Boss - Boss - !" A man howls from the other side of the bar. It's the one from earlier, now made flesh. Where Greed may have height and demeanor on side, Dolcetto seems to have speed and maneuverability. The hellhound dodges obstacles (tables, a thrown aside chair, glasses) without missing a beat - his focus, trained on the Sin in question.
Greed sags his wrist to wave the hound away. "It's nothing, Dol. Just needed some insurance," the Sin purses his lips; his expression similar to someone from a dentist's office after a couple of numbing shots. "Did you get most of what we need yet?"
The hellhound fidgets. "No, not all. Martel's still out - " Dolcetto's eyes wander to Murmur and it's there, just there, that his true nature gives him away. His eyes aren't brown, they're yellow. His teeth aren't smooth, they're gnarled. The hound's upper lip twitches as if it doesn't know what to do with itself. "Gree - boss," he whispers.
"Yeah, I know. But he wouldn't be here if I didn't owe him one or didn't trust him. Angel, meet Dolcetto. Dol, meet the reason we're going to have a long night."
It's very obvious Greed's dodging the question, which Murmur expected. For the moment he decided to let it drop, but that didn't mean he wasn't sticking a mental pin in it and going to continue listening for clues later. His interest was piqued, and being the information broker that Murmur was meant he wouldn't stop hunting until that curiosity was sated. As far as the accusation of being harsh goes, Murmur just gave Greed yet another one of those flat and unimpressed stares. It didn't take much to guess that the general level of competency was suspect here, given how easily Greed himself had been captured, and Murmur wasn't expecting to be proven wrong on his hypothesis.
Having nothing further to say on the subject of Greed's minions or their location Murmur stays silent, eyes wandering about taking in the details. Old walls stained with ages past, faded and fresh graffiti layers deep, piles of rusted and rotting trash and debris forming twisted abominations in the dark. All the signs of human life in its stinking, twisted refuse that rolls downhill and piles upon the 'less desirable.' It was a matter of fact that the most interesting of their species could often be found in places like this. Even more a matter of fact one could gauge the quality of a society by just how deep these urban junkyards went. For how they treated their least fortunate directly weighed against the value of those sitting at the top.
This world was rotten. Fortunately they'd been sworn to never do another flood.
As much as he seems to no longer be paying attention Murmur was listening to Greed's instructions. Thankfully he in fact did not need to breathe, and was mindful not to inhale when the demon began forging the door to his domain. Were Murmur a fledgling to such things he'd likely have been startled by the sudden violence of it all. The light, the sound, the smell would have sent most angels reeling in a panic of holy light and lashing out. Greed's lucky he's not dealing with someone more skittish, or he might have had a few burns that would prove much harder to heal than the minor inconvenience of his capture.
As it was, Murmur appeared barely phased by it all. Once it was over he simply blinked down at the devil on his ass, reaching up to casually dust some rain off the shoulder of his coat while the one identified as "Dol" came crashing over exactly like an over excited pit bull terrier. To his credit, Murmur didn't move. Not to assist, nor to get out of the path of a rampaging hell hound. He, more than most, understood the song and dance of bluff and bluster. To flinch would be to show weakness, to puff up and display would be to show threat. To do nothing at all? Well, he's long found that to have a much more amusing effect. No threat, no bluster, no flinching or showing off. Only calm watching with his head canted ever so slightly to one side. Curious, but not too curious. Let the demons scrabble about finding their footing with an enemy in their midst, he can wait.
"What were you saying about competence again?" He asked lightly, flippantly even as he eyed Dol fidgeting and admitting his failure. Really, just how hard was it to go out with a shovel this time of night? He did offer something of a faint inclination of his head in greeting. Polite, if heavily reserved. One did not risk excessive deference to a hound they didn't know. "I suppose there is a point to be made, if not for me your night may have been cut tragically short." Do stop blaming him for your failures, Greed, he doesn't much appreciate it.
While Murmur may be an unphased statue through it all, the Sin's more like a bruised boxer at the end of a rather grueling night. His hand rubs at aches deep in the muscle of his neck; his face is relaxed, yet tired. And when he tests his footing, he does it in a way that's tentative - as if the world may just finally open up and swallow him whole without remorse, pity, or even the slightest bit of hesitation. Only once, does he falter and when the squares of his heels clck-clack out of sync, Dolcetto visibly stiffens.
But that's it. No comment, no exchange of words. The devil quickly corrects himself and sets his path back to the bar.
"I told you, they're mine. Stop worrying so much," Greed's back dips and his jacket falls like liquid off his shoulders. He takes the time to shrug it off on a nearby stool where it drops disheveled into a pinched-up pile of upturned leather and fur. "-at this point, it'll be almost impossible for them to track us down. We have some time, angel."
Blindly, he stretches out his arm and lets his fingers search the backside of the bar. "Besides, haven't you ever heard the phrase? When there's no gold left, turn right, go left - ah." Srct: his nails find something and dig in. A hungry connection, sharp and cutting. Greed lifts a hefty bottle of Hell-knows-what from a hidden compartment and as his teeth tear through the cork like a hyena to a bone, a sliver of a smile creases on his face. It's the same one as before, though haggard. A devil-may-care attitude flooding in as the liquor pours deep down his throat. Because demons, devils - they were like that, weren't they? Creatures with enough ego, enough of a complex, that they always kept crawling back.
One of the bar stools tips dangerously to the side and Greed settles in, his one leg kicked up and stretched out on the counter's beaten-in edge. "Pup, you already got the dead man's dirt, right? Then we're just waiting on Martel." He tosses the cork of the bottle onto the bar top, letting it spin like a dreidel. "That woman's someone you don't have to worry about."
"Martel hasn't been gone that long, anyway." Dolcetto chips in. He's pointedly avoiding looking at Murmur when he can, save for the few, chaste examinations and glares. It's all too obvious that the hellhound has some internal conflicts about the situation. On one hand, there's an enemy in their midst. An enemy, by all accounts, they shouldn't even be speaking to right now. On the other hand -
On the other hand.
Greed takes another healthy swig of his drink before slapping the bottle on the bar top, making the liquor skip a beat in the glass. "Our heavenly friend does have a point, though. Try to make him feel comfortable, huh?" The Sin lifts his head. In the muddied mirror of the bar, his reflection seems to warp. It's still him: that same face, that same pin-prick stare. Yet, his eyes: they're brighter than before. A red bleeds out of them like tail lights chasing in the dark.
Greed sways his wrist. "Get something ready in one of the spare rooms. Once Martel gets back, we'll get everything settled." Another flaking peel of ash tumbles off his knuckles and Dolcetto's mouth screws itself into a worried frown. Again, however, he says nothing and instead eyes Murmur one last time before disappearing back into the building's deep and numerous pits.
The Sin flattens his hand on the bar top. "Take a seat, angel. Could be another few minutes before Martel shows up." A noticeable change chokes in his throat. It clings there, holding on and debating. He can't let down his shield, he never could. Yet, pushing himself as he did -
Greed's teeth tighten together into a jeering grin and the black at his collar hitches up a little more over his jawline. "You've really got me in a pickle don't you, you little pissant? Tch." His nails dig into the wood of the bar. He doesn't bother hiding it anymore; that black skin (as dark as oil and just as slick), the way his nails have extended and bent like a vulture's ever-seeking talons. It's the monster underneath it all, finally coming to the surface. An ugly thing, rotten and consuming.
And now? Now he has a debt to pay.
The Sin's mouth opens and a cloud of smog exhausts from his lungs. "Guess I owe you. So, what is it you want? When all of this is said and done. I am fair, remember. Equivalent exchange." He waggles his claws. "Name it and we'll see what I can do. I'd really hate to have a debt hanging over me."
Angels are like that, statuesque, unyielding. As different at Murmur was from his brothers he was also just as much the same. Watching, ever watching, and very rarely do they act. Though being here was an act of rebellion in and of itself, one cannot expect him to be particularly emotionally invested in as much of a risk as Greed poses. His existence remained tenuous, and until the dust settled it would continue to be that way. However, Murmur wasn't one to do things in halves, he would put in his best effort as he had been all night. Their escape was reasonably clean, all things considered, and their trail rather efficiently disguised. They had time, even if that wasn't much comfort to the angel at the present.
The hound may be uncomfortable having such an intruder, but Murmur was in the thick of an enemy's nest and severely outnumbered. He was no more comfortable with the situation than they.
"I have not heard such a phrase, no." He confessed, only looking perplexed at the strange wording. So, while Greed dug around for whatever it was he was after Murmur helped himself behind the bar counter as well, but he was looking for something quite different. A bowl, simple stainless steel and exactly what he needed. He tossed it on the counter next to Greed. "Ash in that, if you would." He's going to need it for what he's brewing. Might as well collect everything they can while they wait for the main ingredient.
As for Dol, Murmur seemed content pretending he wasn't there. The hound could scowl and glower all he wanted, Murmur wasn't going to be bothered by it. Now it was just a waiting game, his least favorite. The offer of a seat was met with a flat stare for a few moments before he sighed and relented, moving back around to go perch on a stool, eventually settling with his back and elbows leaned up against the bar. "One would think you'd be at least moderately more grateful, all things considered," He quipped lightly, not acknowledging the 'pissant' accusation.
The offer, though, was met with something of a sly sideways smirk on the angel's part. "I'm afraid that is a debt you're going to have to carry for a time, demon. When it is time you will hear my request and not a moment before." Greed's just going to have to squirm on it. No one enjoys having a debt hanging over them, bad news for Greed is that Murmur rather enjoys collecting them.
Greed coolly slides one of his eyebrows up as soon as the bowl comes into view. What was that, about a pound of flesh? "Get right to the point, don't you. Fine." He gently ushers the bottle away to present his wrist. The second coating across his skin is smooth and lightless like steel smoked beyond recognition. Yet unlike metal, it seems to bend flawlessly where it needs to. It's like whatever it is, it was meant for him. A perfect design for a creature so far removed from the idea of purity.
"It's all in God's plan," they say. Perhaps that isn't so far from the truth.
A healthy clump of ash wafts off his hand and goes topside into the bowl. "You're missing a lot up there. Sure, you're watching it, but you're still missing the most important things. I don't get it." Humming, he reaches up to his throat to give his neck a light scratch. While his nails should, by all accounts, tear his flesh to ribbons, they meet the charcoal coating like gears grinding in the dark, and sparks fissure off his fingertips. "That's the problem with you and it's why yours always seem to have to resort to extremes. Tell me, when's the last time you really sat down with them? Really gotten to know them? You could learn a few things from the mortal lot."
When he yanks his claws away, the shells of his nails are thick with soot. Greed taps them off into the bowl. "Miracles aren't worth shit anymore. It's what you do that matters. Isn't that what they teach you up there? Eh." The lines he scratched in blister to gold. They make a map of his throat; how it dips in places, how it thickens out into the bottom of his skull, how it expands whenever he sucks in at the backs of his teeth.
Greed wraps his free hand around the neck of the bottle and plugs it with a finger. "As for that," he snaps his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "No one said I wasn't grateful, pissant. I just don't like it when I can't settle my debts. And considering you, well." He noncommittedly shrugs one shoulder. "Not that I don't like you, but you tend to be a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes. It's too bad, really. If things were different, I think you and I could be good friends."
But they were batting for different teams and playing for different masters. Angels and demons didn't become friends.
The Sin shifts in his seat and slowly drags his foot off the counter to notch it into one of the rungs of the stool. A rumbling laugh shakes his throat. "Ha -! See, I told you - you are a pissant and a greedy one at that. This is why I like you. At least you aren't afraid to set your terms. But don't get the wrong idea," he slurs and the claw he has shoved in the liquor bottle hooks, drawing a faint line inside the glass. "I don't work for anyone else. You can call in your favor, but don't expect anything other than that."
A light blinks off in his jacket. Greed slaps his foot outward to tilt the seat and drop the phone into his waiting hand. "That's Martel. She's on her way back with the last thing you need - " The Sin's expression softens, amused. "Sounds like she had a bit of a time with it, too. I won't hear the end of it."
"I am never 'off the clock' as it were." Murmur doesn't know what taking breaks means, he's a workaholic through and through. Wouldn't know what to do with himself with downtime, and even now he was barely containing his impatience at a lack of constructive activity. To his credit he wasn't pacing or perching weirdly... yet. He had every reason to be anxious. Quick as he might be able to flee if anyone so much as caught a whiff that he might be involved he was as good as executed. Angels did not typically believe in evidence or investigations, much less anything remotely like a fair trial.
"We cannot get involved, you know that. Our very presence is enough to nullify free-will, mortal kind cannot know of our involvement or existence. I am certain you see it still, the reverberations of our influence millennia after we stopped making contact remain." He gestures dismissively, letting out an impatient snort. "What's to miss? The destruction of this world, their greatest gift? The degradation of their souls? The efficiency by which they slaughter themselves? There may be no shortage of spare vessels to inhabit, but that is far from a ringing endorsement." That is to say it's been thousands of years for him since he'd last bothered to walk among mortal kind in any meaningful capacity.
Again a flippant and dismissive gesture, punctuated by Murmur lifting himself to perch on his stool more like a bird, rather than sitting in it like a normal person. It lets him keep his hands folded together in a triangular shape so that he resists the urge to fidget. It's unbecoming. "They teach us not to get involved. As I said, it is not our place. Only despair follows such acts, or has no one told you the truth behind the Flood?" He cants his head to the side curiously, now fixing Greed with that unnervingly heavy stare of his. A weight which feels as though it's peeling away at one's very essence layer by layer to lay beneath a microscope.
There's a disdainful huff at Greed's complaints. "You would hardly be useful to me on someone else's leash." Not that Murmur had any intention of putting him on one either, but it's amusing to hold the implied threat there all the same. Keep Greed guessing what might be coming down the line. "And you think we cannot now? Why?" It's not like he actually has any friends to speak of, so this is hardly different. Still, he did have to wonder what made it so impossible.
Then there was an interruption from their conversation, Murmur finally released Greed from his dreadful stare to stare blankly at a wall thousands of miles away. "Good. Finally." Once he was done perhaps he could just be on his way. Surely Greed could look after himself from this point, no? "Do they no longer keep a healthy supply of goats around?"
The Sin's finger idly slides out of the liquor bottle, leaving behind a smear of sludged sulfur in its wake. He wears an expression on face that's both jeering and thoughtful in the same breath; as if he has a million things to say, a million stories to tell, trapped behind his bear-trap smile. Angels are and were a complicated lot. They drew lines where there didn't need to be any, created rules that made little to no sense. Everything boiled down to absolutes: what was righteous and what certainly wasn't. And in all that black, all that white, they left little room for the cool, comfortably gray.
A shame. He always found that gray so much more inviting.
Greed cocks one of his eyes open to watch Murmur. "There it is. You're always thinking in absolutes. Sure, they aren't perfect, but it wasn't so long ago that yours weren't either," he tests his mouth again and a feather of ash lifts off his lip to join the rest of his growing collection. "I can't blame you, it's in your nature to see the worst of what they are. But tell me this: if you really think there's no point, why bother? Everything you do - " Trailing off, he eyes the bar's back mirror again. The points of him (the ones that pass as human anyway) are starting to fade more and more. His pupils trill in their sockets, threatening to pull apart and multiply like cells in a furnace, his skin is a pale, his teeth have elongated ever-so-slightly. Greed draws his shoulders up to his ears and as he pulls himself from his stool, the cloud he leaves behind is murky and thick. A devil's fog, whispering his movements.
"Why? Because you'll always be like that." He lifts his clawed hand and taps at the air. "You'll always be running to the morals that define you and I'll always ignore them. You can't help what you are, handsome and neither can I." The Sin tips his head to offer a cagey, toothy grin. "Doesn't mean I don't like you, far from it. If things were different, I'd have you in a heartbeat. Everything that you are, everything that you can do. But I told you: everyone wants something they can't have. I'm no different. Mmn."
Jerking, the Sin meets the sound of an opening door with an admiring look. "I'm not one to be on anyone's leash. And I think, at the end of the day, neither are you if you gave it a chance." Loud thumps rumble from the stairwell as he talks. Someone (something) has arrived with a hefty cache. "Save that thought, though. Seems beautiful has come back with everything you need."
Sure enough, a younger woman slinks into view from the bowed-out overhang making up the bar's entrance. At first glance, she could easily pass as human. Her nearly shaved head and face tattoo give her the look of a military brat gone rogue. Yet unlike Dolcetto, there's a cold demeanor about her that screams; that shouts, hisses, and silently rattles to keep far, far away.
Greed's smile brims when he sees her and he can't help the short, curt whistle as he watches her shoulder a rather burly, freshly slaughtered goat. "Well, well. That certainly is impressive, lovely."
Martel gives him a single, cool stare before shoving the goat off her shoulders and onto the floor with juicy thud. "Nothing impressive about it - what kind of shit did you get into anyway, boss?" She catches Murmur and her eyes narrow, if only by a hair. "I actually don't want to know all the details. Can Roa carry this to where ever you need it to go?" The knife strapped to her shoulder pops out after a quick play of her fingers and Martel casually wipes it on her pants.
"I'm sure he can. Good job, Martel," the Sin pockets his hands and shuffles his feet closer to the carcass. "No one bothered you while you were out, did they?"
Martel pauses, her knife held stiff and at the ready. After a moment, she shoves it back into its sheath with a leathery shhhss. "No, no issues. But - " Now that she's gotten a better look at him, her expression subtly shifts. She makes out Murmur again, chases Greed's ash. It isn't worry on her face, least not the normal kind. It's a hesitation. A concern buried under layers of defense and a need to coil up and constrict any feeling, any at all, until it chokes itself out.
She rubs her thumb against her index finger. A nervous fidget. "-you are ok, right?" She asks, softly.
Greed dips his spine to flash his extended teeth. "I'm fine, I promise. Just ran into some trouble. Our friend here is gunna fix it. Then, we'll all be on our merry fucking way." His lips shrink back together. "Don't worry about it. You've done everything you need to tonight. Go take a break. We'll let you know when it's all done."
The rules made sense to them, sometimes. Often they were methods of control. Not being creatures that adapted quickly like mortals they tended to swing in wild extremes, if something goes poorly it then becomes outlawed. Such they learned during the Fall, such they learned during other numerous mishaps. In the time it took them to learn a new lesson generations of mortals had come and gone in the blink of an eye. That wasn't to say they couldn't, and that wasn't to say things didn't change in subtle and dramatic ways over time.
"I never said there was no point, do not put words in my mouth. You also continue to make sweeping assumptions about me. You are not much different than that which you condemn." Maybe Greed touched a nerve, maybe Murmur is just getting tired of circular conversation and stress. It was hard to say, but there seemed to have been the very slightest cold edge that creeped into his usual monotone at that. Thankfully he was spared having to elaborate or continue with the tired argument not terribly long after. He does have enough time to cast Greed something of a puzzled look at the claims of being willing to 'have him.'
Not knowing how to respond to that, Murmur's happy for the distraction of Martel arriving with their package. Hopefully the slaughtering didn't involve cutting too many holes in it, they need all the blood they can get. At the very least this one looked more competent than Dolcetto did.
While they spoke Murmur hadn't moved, simply remained perched where he was like a weird bird, silently regarding the conversation. When he said he needed the blood he assumed that would come alongside a bucket... perhaps he should have been more clear? Well, nothing for it now. They'll make do with whatever they can find.
"You were setting up a room for this, yes?" Back to business as usual, all sign of emotion gone again. It's easier to be the impartial mask, he's been playing that game so long it just comes naturally.
As he leans down to grab the carcass, Greed slowly raises his arms to a mock surrender. It causes the fog of smoke hanging about him to gather thickly around his head - like swarm of buzzing, crop-hungry locusts readying themselves for their coming famine.
Shallowly, the Sin hangs his head. "Hey, hey - calm down, would you? You know I didn't mean anything by it." His spine writhes when he responds; as if a bundle of snakes were squirming just beneath his skin, ready and waiting to strike at whatever got too close. "I like you, angel. Haven't I said that enough?" His clawed hand stretches out and strangles the goat's bloated-belly carcass by one of its remaining horns. "I'm merely sayin' - it would be a lot easier if you weren't on anyone's side."
He pulls and the dead animal slowly slips off the floor, leaving behind a dreadful trail of loose hair and slop. Greed adjusts his arm to bring the goat's milky-eyed stare close for an inspection. "It's not like I'm taking orders from below. Haven't been for a while, actually." His pupils tense and shiver to brittle points as he examines the butcher's empty kill. There's no life left in those vacant eyes, just death. A nothingness, a void, where they should be something. Whether it bothers him or not though, it's hard to say. The way he turns his wrist to get a better look at the killing-cut, how he flippantly adjusts his hold to follow the puncture wound to the obvious cause of death: there's something disturbingly vacant about it. As if the concept of mortality is somehow foreign, impossible, for him to understand.
The Sin breaks the staredown with another even smile. "'Suppose it's just not who I am." Meaning he reports to no one. Not his wretched kin, nor any other masters of the dominion below that may try otherwise. No, he's a rogue prince and an aloof king a long way from home with no intention of ever going back.
Though many sure have tried.
Greed rolls the goat onto one shoulder and jumps to settle the body into the crook of his neck. "Besides, my greed's just too much. If I stayed with them, it would never be satisfied. And that's enough of a reason for me. I just hoped that maybe, someday, you could be the same." He jerks his head to the side and the swarm of soot trapped about his skull finally thins, revealing the splintered, veiny cracks donning the crown of his forehead. "Nevermind that, though. You needed a room, right? C'mon," the Sin's voice slicks hot at the back of his teeth. Already, his tongue has visibly split somewhere along the line and the forks of it run like liquid fire over his lower lip. "-should it just be us, then? Or do you need the rest of 'em around to seal the deal?"
Deeper, deeper, deeper into the building he goes, moving passed unmarked doors, unlit corners, and skittering eyes that are there one moment and gone the next. If his prison were the epitome of holy grounds, his sanctuary is the total opposite. Things and creatures dart and move through every piece of the building like permanent haunts. Even the structure itself seems off in a way: the pipes groan through the floorboards, the lights blink sporadic nonsense. To the mortal lot, the proper description might be a hell hole. And ironically? Well.
It isn't that far from the truth.
Greed pauses at one of the many vague doors down a hallway and with a soft kick, he forces it open, bringing with it musty cobwebs and the scent of wet-slick concrete and brick. "Been a bit since I've been down here, so watch your step." An unearthly glow throbs from down below as the Sin elbows a questionable light switch. Silt, dust, forgotten times: they plume out as he descends. Each step, every groan of a stair, only releasing more, more, more.
The Sin balances the goat as he shuffles and skips over a step or two to avoid a large hole. "I'll have to get that fixed eventually. Keep to the left. Don't need you falling today, hmn?"
"I am not asking for flattery or platitudes, I am asking you to cease making generalizations and assumptions about my motives and character." He doesn't think it's unfair to expect Greed to practice his own preaching. He's been making demands that Murmur give his goons a fair shake all night, something that he has largely done even if he was perhaps uncharitable toward the hellhound for asking stupid questions. While it was as much Murmur's fault for ever keeping his own council and that council closely guarded, if one were to take even the slightest look at his actions they might come to see that he is most certainly not driven by some Heavenly fervor. He hadn't burned the place to the ground, after all.
After another long flat stare Murmur just moved on, hopping down from his stool to start making his way toward the halls. The sensation of the conversation being brushed aside nigh palpable in that simple gesture. He wasn't interested in playing these games, he had a job to do and he'd get it done. The whole sordid affair was starting to leave a bad taste in his mouth.
Death was no more poignant to the Celestial. While he had tasted its bitter sting, the distinction between the life of an angel being snuffed out and that of a mortal creature was as distinctly different as the death of a star and the impact of an asteroid. Death was in their nature, some things required sacrifice, and this night was no exception.
"Oh, don't act wounded now. Do not preach at me then play the victim when your carelessness comes back to bite you." This time his words lacked the icy sting they had earlier, he was back to feigning boredom with the conversation. It wasn't like the angel was good at being conversational, not when he found the subject tiresome. Greed didn't know his stance on mortals nor was he inclined to spend the whole night defending himself. It was tiresome and pointless. No, words were deceptive, it was only in action one could best perceive another's intent.
"At least one pair of hands that can run a paint brush, otherwise whatever you need. Their presence is not required." He just needs them to do the heavy lifting because that's monkey work and Murmur isn't doing monkey work, even if he does like them just fine. He follows along silently, little more than a frosty shadow at their backs down the twisting hallways. The angel does not seem particularly bothered by the presence of spying eyes and skittering darkness. It is as much home to him as the blinding light of Heaven, but again... Greed wouldn't know that would he? Again Murmur only leveled a flat, unamused gaze at the demon telling him to watch his step. He could see just as well in the dark as he could in the light and scarce needed to concern himself with balance. Still, he makes no further comment, merely following along on the despicable path toward damnation's gut.
"I am hardly inclined to break a bone, you realize." He chides, still sounding bored as he skips over it with that obnoxious grace of the holy ones. Still unbothered, still barely even acknowledging the depths to which they were crawling. One would expect one of the holy ones to be complaining and squirming by now, fussing about the filth and degeneration. Not this one, he took it in stride and moreover managed to look wholly unimpressed with the whole thing.
A shallow whistle sharpens sarcastically through his teeth. "Is that what you think? That I'm here for pity? C'mon, now," the Sin saunters down the stairs and with one arm stretched out, he waggles a finger; his notion something crude and dismissive. "-you know I'm better that. I was just saying. Didn't mean anything by it." For how rude he may be, how blunt he acts, there is truth in what he says. It isn't so hard to wound him. He's sin incarnate, after all. Opinions, assumptions - they're par for the course.
Besides, Pride was and is belongs to someone else entirely.
Greed shrugs and the goat's dead-fish head flops against his back, bloated and heavy. "Got the perfect one in mind. I think you'll like him," he starts in as more and more, the steps fall away. The angel is certainly right about one thing: the building isn't up to code. Least, nothing that would pass mortal laws and regulations. Fumes of unknowns sigh out of exposed pipes like the mouths of statues frozen in perpetual yawns; slick streaks of unholy bile trickle through the cracking foundation. If the Sin cares, he doesn't show it, even as he steps into a rather hefty puddle at the bottom, causing his heels to sizzle and pop like a blacksmith's hot irons to a cooling vat.
"No, you're not. But I forget what's down here. Figured I'd give you the courtesy," he hums, his body bowing into the single, solitary light furiously blinking away at the bottom of the stairs. This far down, there isn't much to see. A few emergency signs blur red from the twisted corners and time-worn holes, but other than, the basement is simply a wild, cave-like system. Whatever this part of the building once served for, it's been reduced to a belly. A place for his avarice to collect, store, and hide things away through the years.
Greed wipes his boot onto a dry spot, smearing a crescent shape into the concrete. "Besides, I think if I let you slip into something, our friend here would be pretty concerned." The Sin slinks out of the light's harsh, milk-yellow glow to sink into the dark again. "You still up there with us, Bido? You can come out, y'know. Mur here won't hurt you."
As if answering, something skitters above them, moving fast and balanced between the exposed beams and rotten wood. Whatever it is, it's small enough to travel seamlessly through all of the building's obvious hazards. Soft scritches chitter in the ceiling's nesting mess and as Greed moves, so do the sounds; their patterns like that of a cat cautiously following to see if maybe, just maybe, it'll get a meal for all its trouble.
The Sin pauses and the noises drop silent again. "Oi, oi, oi - come on down. It's safe, I promise." There's a clear shift in his tone in comparison to the rest of his crew. Where Martel had been given the usual slick and sweet and Dolcetto experienced his crude, oddly loving jeers, Greed handles this new comer with a sense of delicateness. As if Bido, whatever he is, could break by words and words alone. It's an intentional gesture and as Greed slowly lowers the goat's body to the ground, he opens himself up. His arms go wide, his chest beckons. It's a silent motion; a quiet answer:
"No one, nothing, will hurt you while I'm here."
And it does do the trick. One of the boards a few feet up bends as a distorted looking sack carefully lowers itself to the ground. The creature is both short and shy - his stance more similar to a beggar that's been beaten too many times to count. The burlap pile immediately runs to Greed to hide between his legs and examine the goat. "I - sorry, Mr. Greed. I wasn't sure - I was worried. I was - "
Greed curls his warm hand atop the man's head, patting it twice. "I know, but I'm fine. Remember? It takes - "
"- a lot more to hurt you, I know. But I heard about Bradley and the rumors about him being Wrath and I - "
The Sin's face darkens. "Yeah, surprised me too. Guess they needed a better host. But this one's nothing to worry about. He's here to make sure they don't follow. Think you can handle his demands?"
"Perish the thought," He didn't really think that, but rubbing Greed the wrong way was an ample kind of petty revenge for all the trouble Greed's put him through tonight. Especially while endlessly running his mouth, if he didn't know better Murmur might think he was ungrateful for the save!
"Oh?" Now he was intrigued, the others he'd been given warnings about to not bother or be too harsh, he'd yet to have the Sin suggest he might like one. As they travel it occurs to him that it's very fortunate he doesn't need to breathe, and that while his sense of smell was strong in specific ways things didn't tend to register as putrid as easily as they would for mortals. The fumes of this place would be dreadful for the mortal kind.
The strangeness of the stomach like depths weren't lost on him, it was clear this place had twisted into something dark and twisted from its origins, a great gut that never quite got around to digesting its prey. The insatiable hunger of greed, an ever starving maw.
Skittering sound catches his attention, Murmur's eyes snap up to the beams and he watches with head tilted like a curious bird, eyes sharp, unobstructed by the gloom of this dank cavern. Still, given the maze of mess it was hard to make out what it was that was following them, even if the dark weren't a hinderance. For perhaps the first time since they'd arrived Murmur dared actually look interested in whatever this mysterious creature skittering among the rafters was. A being so cherished that Greed approached it with caution and care, how novel! How terribly strange! The other acts were boring, expected displays of bravado and oil-slick charm, but this was something entirely different.
Murmur hangs back. He makes no move to lower himself to look smaller, still very aware he's a lone angel in the belly of the beast so to speak, but he also makes no effort to look intimidating. By nature he looks average, soft around the edges and unassuming and non-threatening, a trait he intends to lean on in this situation. When the creature finally does appear he only continues to watch silently, head remaining tilted in that oddly bird-like way, unable to disguise his fascination with this new revelation.
"Secrets upon secrets. Might I inquire as to which one this is?" Don't think he's not noticed the conversation, Greed, he's merely tucking the information away for later. Introductions first, interrogations later.
The Sin's hand slides off Bido's head slow, purposeful, and lingering; like a fortune teller caressing a crystal ball with an awareness of just how fragile the future could be. When the tips of his claws leave the creature's burlap hood, he seems to make a point to twist a fray string about his finger and with a single hiss, he burns it away.
"Bido, meet Mur. Mur, Bido," Greed slurs in, his voice once again a thick syrup in the back of his throat. "If you're looking for someone to get the job done quick, Bido's your guy. Isn't that right?" He playfully tilts his head to flash a sharkish grin and in the basement's crude dim of sunken reds and steam, his skin gives off a heated look. The shadows in his face carve deeper - the exit-sign halos tickle his cheeks. It's as if, no matter where he is, no matter where he wanders, that core of his eventually catches and spills out to places, things, people. In the end, he's a wildfire. One born to fume on and on despite anyone's attempts to put him out.
And as Bido weaves through his legs, his yellow-saucer eyes illuminating wide, it's clear the creature has been caught up in the blaze for some time.
"I, well. I'm pretty good at getting into spots most people can't," Bido stammers as one of his lizard(y) hands curls to anchor itself against Greed's thigh. "But I'm not as good as some of the others. I - " The creature blinks and his eyes throw off an otherworldly shimmer similar to a night-prowling cat caught in a flashlight. "-sorry, I didn't mean to go off like that, Mr. Murmur. What - what can I do to help?"
The Sin adjusts his stance to give Bido a little more room to move. "He needs your painting skills." He gestures downward with a crooked finger to point at the goat. "I'll get you the blood. I'm sorry to ask, and I know you don't like this kind of stuff, but you've got the steadiest hand in the joint." While Greed explains, Bido timidly examines the animal's corpse through the frame of the Sin's legs. He rubs his hands over each other - another nervous habit. "If you can get us a clean brush and a bucket, I'll get it ready. Sound fair?"
"S-Sure. Sure thing." Bido peels himself away from Greed to circle the goat. He watches it with an air of hesitation - his demeanor more similar to a child's first hunting experience. His entire body language is that of distaste. Distaste, but also resolution. The world they lived in was a cruel one, after all.
No doubt, he's seen worse.
After the thorough lookover, Bido briefly pads backwards onto his hands and feet to move up a half-leaning plank of wood. "Dolcetto and Roa dropped off something else earlier. Do you need me to bring that over too? It smelled like dirt." He addresses Murmur now, his wide eyes darting to avoid staring too long. "I - I can bring that over too while you work, Mr. Greed. I don't want to cause too much trouble."
The Sin's face falls at that and he clicks his tongue to correct it. "Oi, you're never a trouble, Bido. Don't sell yourself so short." He moves forward and bends; his whole body appearing to topple over itself and balance like a rock on small, jutting cliffside. "Besides, I wouldn't trust anyone else to get this job done." He gives the smaller man a soft wink and a show of teeth for good measure. "Just get back here when you can."
Visibly, Bido brightens and his thin, hooked-reptile claws tap excitedly atop the wood. "I will, Mr. Greed. Mr. Murmur! I'll be back." And with that, he's off. A single leap up has him part way into the ceiling. A scamper later, and Bido disappears back into the secondary set of systems making up the droptop of the basement.
The Sin watches him go before shrinking down into a crouch. "Thanks," he whispers. "-for being good with him." He flicks one of his nails out to run in backwards through the thick fur at the goat's throat. "Out of all of 'em, Bido's seen the worst of it. He used to be human once. But y'know how it goes: wrong place, wrong time, wrong people." Greed buries his voice in his chest, making it vibrate and twist into a deep, shuddering growl. "Things aren't fair, angel. I know that. But sometimes, I wish they were."
The tip of his claw severs something and a hunk of flabby, hide-slick skin peels away from the animal's neck. "As for that thing I mentioned earlier," he slicks the forks of his tongue over his lips. "That whole deal went south for a lot of reasons. But I also didn't expect Wrath to have a new host." He works as he talks - slicing there, peeling here, yet always careful not to nick or cut anything that could possibly make the carcass bleed out and thus leave them back at square one.
He rips off a heavy slab of skin and tosses it onto the floor with a juicy thwmp. "Might be easier if you don't know. Would rather you not have to deal with that mess." And there it is: his thank you, his admiration, his try. Because as much as Heaven and Hell like to play at war and turf, the abyss is constantly at odds. The bickering, the fighting, the clawing at the next, big power play. It's something his have always marched to. An obedient group of soldiers following blind to someone else's orders.
It's one of the reasons he left in the first place. And while that mess will always be there?
He's not interested in bringing in anyone else.
Greed shakes his wrist and another cigarette appears magically between his fingers. "Things really did get complicated today, didn't they? Ah, well."
Politely Murmur inclined his head to acknowledge Bido's introduction. The interaction between the two was fascinating, this was a side of Greed he hadn't seen in action before, and might not have completely believed existed until this moment. Greed's consistent displays of carelessness and bravado were enough to even smoke screen the Angel of Sight's vision in this area, it would seem.
Now, while a steady hand wasn't strictly necessary a swift one was, and if Bido could get where the others couldn't more effectively then he was not one to complain about the choice in artists. Certainly Greed knew the strengths of his crew, and this time Murmur would trust his decision in the matter. After all, if Bido failed, then it was all of their heads.
He was not going to bring that up in the present delicate company. As it was he didn't need to offer a word in edge wise, instead only nodding when Bido asked if it was the dirt he needed. The dirt, and enough room to spread his wings, a commodity he wasn't expecting to be in such short supply and yet here they were. "Do you have somewhere with some space?" He asked while Bido was scampering away, clicking claws fading as he vanished.
Eyes that had been watching the creature's retreat dart down to regard Greed with a newfound curiosity. This tenderness was strange. "I may be cold, but I am not needlessly cruel." He can tell when he should best keep his mouth shut and curb the bitter edge of his ice. This being, Bido, had been through the wringer and was not built of the same durability as those who do not understand death. A quiet, amused yet rueful sound escaped him. "Thus is the cost of all this grey. Black and white have faded, their meanings obscured in the fog. What is wickedness for one is salvation for another. Fair, unfortunately, is very difficult to weigh." He isn't without sympathy, there is a kind of long deep sadness in his tone. Strange, given how very rarely even the barest hint of emotion might leak from his icy dam. Life wasn't fair, that didn't mean they couldn't be furious at the injustice of it all.
"Ah, and that is how you found yourself in such an unfortunate predicament, I expect?" He really must learn to be more careful. Greed picking and prodding at their paint medium did have him grinding his teeth just a little, but the demon seemed smart enough not to drain too much of it out onto the floor. It wouldn't do them any good there. "Like as not I am already in the thick of it. You might as well divulge, that I can further fortify your defenses." It's easier to know what to do if he knows what he's up against. Yes, he knows well the endless warring of Hell's against themselves, it's part of what keeps them in check. If they're too organized, too focused, then they might just be able to do more damage than even the Holy Host could prevent.
All part of the precarious balance all things were held in. The eternal battle between stagnation and entropy. The push and pull that kept them alive, and in check.
"Mm, fortunately I rather enjoy a good puzzle. Now then, the sooner we get this underway the sooner we may have a moment to breathe. As it were." He doesn't breathe.
Absently, Greed cleans his claws, flicking away small pieces of flesh and fur onto the basement's concrete slab where they will (no doubt) stay forever more. "Like you said, life isn't fair. And I didn't really see that surprise coming. Though I suppose, I should have figured it'd come sooner or later. They don't really like that I'm not around," he singsongs his words as his clean hand, the one not covered in a mortician's mess, whirls out to conjure up a fresh new flame. For a second or two, he lets the fire dance between his fingers. Pinkie to ring finger, ring finger to his favorite in the middle, middle to the index. The heat sloppily changes color while he works it and when he finally brings the flame to the tip of his smoke, the lick is a soft, mercury blue. The shade of it, a neon lull that compliments him more than it should.
The Sin's lips split and his chest enlarges as he takes in a long, strong pull. "It's a long story. But if you really want to know and since you've obviously earned it - " He clicks, forcing the smoke out in spirals that seem to topple and trip themselves over and over. "- I left years ago. Couldn't tell you how long it's been exactly. It's been long enough though, and they're still not over it." Gingerly, he tests his knees by knocking them in opposite directions, making his hips spread and body lurch over the precarious balance of his heels. "You know how things are done there. No one can ever let anything go. And I'm not one to follow barking orders. So when the opportunity came, I didn't hesitate."
He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, drawing lines in the air with the smoke. "And now, here we are. The two of us avoiding people who would have us right back where they want us. Nothing ever really changes," Greed hums off as a series of lights snap on ahead of them like a silent signal. "Ah. Looks like that's our cue, handsome." The cigarette back in his gnarled-tooth jaw, Greed flattens his palms on the rounds of his thighs. A push later, and he's upright again; his body moving as rigid as a devil stiff from the sun.
The goat finds a home once again on his shoulder like a sack and the Sin leads on; his stance a casual sort of slick. "Normally, I'd ask for a story in return. But since you said I owed you, that's the first one you're getting. Nothing's free, after all." The careful moment with Bido now over, it doesn't take him long to slip right back into his usuals: the purr in his voice, the almost dance-like pace to his step. No, despite being shaken in more ways than one, it takes little to no time for the devil to find himself again. That shield of his all but coming up with a snide smile and a criminal's carefree demeanor.
Through missing-door arches and down widening halls, he goes. True to his word, Bido has lit a path for them, even if lit is a mild term at best. Barrels of liquor pile themselves high on either side of them as they pass; boxes and crates snuggle deep into the corners. Greed watches the bulbs above as they blink in and out of focus and takes a sharp left when another blearily pops off.
The room Bido has set up is probably the cleanest out of the bunch, and the largest. With the room mostly empty, save for a few more of Greed's odd-ball collection of crates, it seems to stretch out endlessly. The ceiling's higher, the floor's a little less smudged. Bido, himself, appears like a tiny lump in the mass of it all; his slouched body hovering about the light switch like a ghost playing a funny trick. When he sees the two of them enter, he quickly pulls himself away.
"I got everything ready, Mr. Murmur! A clean bucket just as you asked, a paint brush. I even have your dirt, right here." Giddily, the creature walks over to the requested items and points them out as if he's some sort of used car lot salesman trying to impress a rather high-rolling guest. In response, Greed gives a hearty laugh as he shrugs off the goat.
"Good job, Bido. Real good job. Knew I could count on you." The Sin stretches his back by moving his spine from side to side and a thick shell of ash shatters onto the floor. "Now, how do we get this started?"
Terrible housecleaning habits, leaving gore to rot into the concrete. The ants and roaches will be well fed at the very least. How thoughtful of him to feed the scavengers. They can have the rest after Murmur's done with the blood, or perhaps if there's a chef around they'll certainly know what to do with a fresh goat.
"The infernal are not exactly known for being particularly forgiving, no," There was a faint bit of wry humor in his tone at that. Slighting devils was never a particularly wise decision. No wonder Greed and his were skittish, though they should be far more worried about their own than Murmur. If he wanted to cause them trouble he would have simply left Greed to deal with the consequences of his carelessness. "Ah, don't be so cynical. You have thus far escaped their grasp, that is a change, subtle though it may be. Change is ever around us, one must simply learn how to observe it." Cheeky and sly as always, Murmur was happy to end the conversation there with their path forward illuminated by sickly light.
Appropriate, in a place like this. Where shadows and secrets dwelled far away from prying eyes. Little did Greed realize Murmur's were the most prying of them all. He just couldn't help himself, it was in his nature. "Nothing's free," He agrees, and in a way Greed was still racking up a bill. Rescued, babysat, his minions tolerated, and his headquarters hidden from sight? Murmur was doing a lot of work here he wouldn't do for just anyone. And now he was about to crack out the forbidden magic? Greed was going to owe him quite the debt indeed. He followed along those twists and turns, cramped corridors and low arches. This place really was sprawling, and with only one goat they'd have to be tactical with their work. Ideally Bido will understand the need once he explains the process further.
Ah, they did indeed pick him adequate space. Most excellent. "Exemplary work, Bido!" High praise from the angel, especially given some of that monotone of his actually shifted into something genuine. Now it was his time to shine. Murmur made his way toward the bucket, setting down the bowl of ash collected earlier nearby and standing again to begin rolling up his sleeves. This was perhaps the first hint that there was more to the angel than met the eye. While he went out of his way to appear as unimpressive in dress and visage as possible his arms were a different story.
Flowing intricate tattoos covered them, arcane symbols of all manner were woven in such dense intricacy it would take even the most seasoned scholar ages to begin to pick them apart. In the dim light the ink seemed to have an unearthly shimmer, sometimes silver, sometimes blood red when they caught the light just right. He motioned for Greed to approach. "Bleed the goat in there, every drop you possibly can. We'll need as much as we can get." The place really was far too large, after all. Once Greed moved to comply he'd begin his work, in equal parts he mixed in the dirt and ash, a pinch here and a handful there he worked the mixture with a paint stirrer he'd found along the way.
Working like this the icy countenance fell away, and a man possessed was revealed in his place. A mad scientist over his experiment, an expert alchemist and chemist both as he muttered incantations and wove his magic into the mixture. Nearing completion they required one final component, so rare as to be nigh impossible to extract... unless one happened to have the very source on hand. Gesturing for Greed to keep his distance Murmur straightened, great wings erupting from his back all at once and the reason for his insistence on space was clear - they were huge.
Easily twenty feet, if not more, from tip to tip with pale blue-gray feathers that glittered as if covered in a fine layer of frost. They were long and narrow like a gull, or more accurately like an albatross, a bird whose omens were all too fitting now in light of their present situation. The pristine feathers were unmarred save for a striking patch at each shoulder with mottled bloodstains marring the otherwise even coloration. The striking markings of a faction only known in whispers and conspiracies, Blood Angels. Greed wasn't the only one harboring secrets, after all.
Murmur was wholly consumed by his work, and unwilling to comment on anything about his wings. Delicately he searched through his feathers, one by one plucking out small ones to crumble into the mixture. As he did so it began to take on a shimmer not unlike the frosty sheen that adorned him. Either unaware or unwilling to acknowledge there might be questions from his witnesses, Murmur went on with his explanation. "Bido, when I am finished with this I will need you to paint a stripe of this above every window and door that opens to the outside of this building. You may have to be sparing, I know not how many exist. Are you able to complete this task?"
At a distance, Greed watches with an uncharacteristic kind of silence. Though his body may be burning (and burn it does - the ash has gotten visibly thicker since they settled in), he's as still as a sculpture. A creature frozen in the moment, watching, examining, picking it all apart as his eyes tick wide only to hush down again. It's that avarice of his, always calling him back. He makes out Murmur's tattoos first, then travels up, and up, and up - his pricking gaze shivering and expanding as if a force beyond both Heaven and Hell is ripping him apart.
The Sin's outline goes out of focus and in his silence, Bido frantically moves into position. "Y-Yes. Yes, Mr. Murmur! I - I can do that for you, don't .. don't even worry about it." The creature's small body, for a second, hesitates. Trapped between all the awe that is Murmur (his encompassing presence, how his wings fill up every inch of space they can take, the way his feathers are clean yet bitter and chill) and his boss who, by all other accounts, creeps on the outer ring like a coming eclipse, he's no match for the storm. This is beyond him, beyond any of them. It's old meeting of older friends, of enemies, of a word no mortal truly knows.
Bido's scampering hands grab the bucket and with a fresh paint brush at the ready, he shuffles briskly toward the door. As if any moment, this meeting of two, opposite currents could burst. Bringing them and the whole house down in a magnificent and beautiful explosion.
"Boss," Bido whispers at the doorframe leading out to the hallway. "Boss - ?"
The cloud where Greed had once been thunders red, orange. "I'm fine, Bido. Go on, do what our friend here says, would you?" The Sin's voice echoes somewhere far, yet oh so near. It drowns itself in the crackling cloud like lightning rumbling on the horizon; an electrified sound, hot and broiling. And maybe it's just because Murmur's being so honest, but something about it: the brooding is like an answer. A call to an echo long gone, hissing back:
"You rang?"
The hallway bulbs flutter, and Bido violently shocks himself back into the present, his saucer(ed) eyes blinking themselves out of a stupor. "R-Right! I'm on it! You can count on me, Mr. Murmur. Just," his nails tickle the handle of the bucket. "-please be careful." And with that, he's gone. Lost to the building's catacombs to begin his long, agonizing work.
"He's never seen something like you before. Gotta say, I'm impressed," Greed's voice creeps from behind Murmur despite their distance. "Sorry, didn't want either of you to see how ugly I could get. But whatever you're doing, well. Seemed only fair." Eyes open in the dark, pupils gone and blaring. They eat at the fumes of sulfur and smoke like flares - their heat burning through only to relight the smog yet again in a vicious cycle. The Sin exhales low through a mouth that sounds laborious. "Looks like both of us are just full of surprises tonight."
Snakes of soot clamber to the door where Bido had once been and strangle it. "I am sorry." His tone manages to be both snide and sincere. Another contradiction. "Once this is done, it's your choice. Whatever you want." Movement stirs inside his cocoon and the Sin finally moves, forcing part of the curtain to pull back and fray along his ankles.
His boots are gone now, replaced by crooked feet and talons best serving a lizard from millennia ago. A single, elongated toe raps softly against the concrete and as it centers itself, the claw at the tip gauges deep into the rock. Despite how stretching his swill seems to go, it appears to avoid Murmur and his work entirely. Instead, it lingers on the edges of all the goings-on; its presence, an audience of sorts. One hovering, keeping its distance, but itching on the edge of its seat.
Blood Angels. Princes of Hell. Oh, what a pair they make.
Greed's claw scratches something into the concrete; the symbol, a rough mess of sketches. "I'm a man of my word, handsome. You do us a favor, and I - " A chain rattles softly nearby and light swings in his shadow - its body swimming in a sea of black, blinding fog. "From mine. From me. Keep your secrets. I owe you that much."
Because he knows, at least he can guess, the cost. The cost of this, the cost of revealing. It's a hefty price to pay. And if he's blind to Murmur? If he can be jumped by him at any time?
He was glad that neither chose to make a particularly noisy fuss over what they'd just witnessed. While it was nowhere near Murmur's full glory, nowhere near at all it was still more than enough to paint a distinctly different picture of the frosty and elusive angel. Generally he kept his secrets so close to his heart even the fact he had secrets was a secret, yet here Greed and Bido alone had been witness to just a hint of it all. One of the Holy Host, covering his vessel in arcane knowledge stolen over millennia with wing feathers stained in blood, what an odd being indeed.
He didn't say anything about the exchange between Bido and Greed, only cocked his head to the side in faint curiosity at Bido's words of warning. Offering a polite nod, he flicked his wings once, even that gentle force kicking up dust and ash all around them as he tucked them neatly against his back. For being so large, they did fold nicely. Now, with Bido scampering off to perform his duty he turned his attention to Greed, letting out a faint rueful huff of amusement. "I was there during the first war between Heaven and Hell, I have born witness to horrors far beyond you, Greed." He's hardly so delicate that he'd be intimidated by Greed going as smoldering as he possibly can.
Again his head tilts to the side, birdlike in its puzzlement while somehow still carrying the weight of eons. "Why are you apologizing? What are you offering? Be clear." As for the secrets, he nods curtly. "I will accept that much, at the very least. They may not take the news as well. But you understand there is more in Heaven, Hell, and Earth than black and white, do you not? You are among those who have forsaken one duty to carry the mantle of another.
The stray thought, for that was what it was, earned something of a light chuckle from the angel. A tinkling sound like crackling ice in the early rising sun, musical and alien all at the same time. "If I wanted to bring harm to you, then I simply would have let it happen." He's cheating but that's also what his kind does, isn't it? Stare into the heart of sin and remain untarnished? Listening to all those deepest darkest thoughts? This one, however, does not recoil. Bathed in blood, they are not so easily flustered.
Ribbons of smoke fishtail in his thunderhead and the light on the outer skirts swings into the clear. The lantern, or at least what could count as one, sways on a rusty chain. Its metal frame has seen better times by the looks of it - the steel is corroded and chewed through in spots, the curved-tin lid capping it off is slightly misshapen. A whisper of a candle barely hangs on inside and as the lantern begins to creep back into the whirlwind from whence it came, the flame shrinks - the life of it a fragile thing. One so close to its end, yet too stubborn to snuff itself out.
Greed's jaw cracks open. "A ward for a ward. Mine won't be able to find you, and neither will I. I'd say that's a fair deal." His hand appears out of the mess of soot, bringing with it trails and dust like fingers through a broken hourglass. With his claws splayed out and his hand gripping the air, he takes on the look of a shadow. Of a phantom appearing out of a fallout, offering an option.
The Sin violently snaps his wrist and the mark on the floor screams off the concrete in flecking embers and shrill noise. All the souls he's taken; all the souls he's marked. They answer to his call: in anguish, in need, in a desire to please. Greed rotates his hand to summon the symbol back up to his face. And as its red glow bleeds into his smoke screen, his eyes blare back. "This won't hurt you, but it might feel a bit weird. Hold still."
A flick of his arm later, and whatever he's conjured up ejects from his control. It slides across the room with screams, with laughter, with all the horror, all the bad, and all the good that he is. When it arrives to Murmur, it shrinks back down again. The electricity arching wildly about calms down to a static; the light dims down to small sparks and sputters.
Slowly, Greed pulls his arm back into his nest. "Once you grab it, it's done. Envy, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, Pride, Wrath. They won't be able to track you, no matter how close they may get. And neither will I. Call it whatever you want, but you've now got the upper hand." The devil shifts, his low laughter forcing his self-made swill to expand and clap back against him like a rubberband. "Can't say I like it, but them's the breaks, isn't it? Ha - ! You are such a fucking pissant. Who'd have thought we'd be here, like this?"
He waves his hand to shoo away whatever it is that's on his mind. "I'm sure you've seen plenty. Still doesn't change anything I said." His raptor(ed) toe plucks itself from the concrete to retreat back again. "I'd rather you keep me as a handsome memory. Give me that, won't you?"
Footsteps far up above shake the ceiling a bit, making a few loose splinters tumble down, down, down. Greed slinks forward to inspect it. "Sounds like Bido's doing double time tonight. I'll make sure he gets your regards."
Because, as the angel said himself, they're on a time schedule. No doubt, Murmur will go on his own way once everything is said and done. Angels didn't belong in a place like this; least of all one who exposed himself, gave himself, and exhausted himself for a rotting palace of monsters and devils alike. Besides, Murmur is on the run and his consequences? They're a bit more dire than his, aren't they? And if the rumors are true -
Greed's quiet for a long while; too long. Until: "I've got enough left in me if you want a clean exit."
It certainly wasn't a ritzy establishment. All corrosion and decay, trash and treasures alike piled haphazardly alongside each other in the gluttonous belly of an insatiable beast. Still, even being aware he was very much surrounded by all things rot and corrosion, he was unbothered. Nothing seemed to trouble the angel, he had been through more than enough to know that for all the age this place carried it was only nature's rot that chewed it. Nothing here would tarnish his wings more than they already were. He'd aided the enemy, and not a single feather smoldered for his trouble.
At first he was going to refuse the offer, a ward that hid him only from Greed and his wouldn't be particularly useful, but to hide him from all the Sins? Well... how could he refuse such a gift? A powerful weapon in a war he'd planted himself firmly in the middle of, whether he liked it or not. All because he just couldn't stop himself from a little rebellion, a little chaos, and most of all... a little justice. Besides, this was a treat precisely up his alley. A sigil to hide him from sight? Exactly his wheelhouse. "Now, now, this hardly means you'll be rid of me," He mused, tone laced with amusement as he reached out to accept the offering. Greed might find it a risk, and it would be were he the type to double cross, but Murmur was most of all loyal.
He just didn't like to tell anyone that.
A breath of chilled air leaves him as the sigil takes hold, leaving him frozen for a moment while he works the thing into his own wards and sigils. Another layer of protection can never go astray. "I shall pretend I've not seen you at your worst, then," His tone quiet, though still amused. "Not that I find it particularly offensive." That's damn near a compliment from him, all things considered.
Once everything had settled and the strange moment had passed he shook himself out, feathers fluffing up as he did so.
"I think I'd rather have a cup of tea. That is, if you're not opposed to harboring a felon for a time?" It would give him a chance to make sure the wards were all firmly in place before any pursuers came their way. If everything worked out as planned, then this place was one of the safest from the holy host one could hope for.
A wheezing bark of a laugh shies out from the cloud, bringing with it all of his swill and dust. Of course, getting rid of Murmur couldn't be that easy. And would he really want it any other way? The Angel was a counterpoint of sorts; a kind of constant comfort that came strolling into his existence time and time again. Like a stray that wasn't a stray at all, or a playing beggar proving humanity's generosity. He was biblical test of sorts. And if that isn't the funniest fucking joke in the world.
With no need to hold up any sort of pretenses, he lets it all down. The ash falls; the cloud drops and scatters as quickly as rats in the drain. And in the center of it all? He's there. The living embodiment of avarice, twisted yet still similar enough that it couldn't be anyone else. The ring hovering about his head thorns itself with three, distinct spikes and while they circle each other in a haze of blackened and tarnished gold, the Sin's fanged mouth quirks.
"And here I thought it'd be easy to get rid of you. Proved me wrong again, handsome." Greed tilts his head, the weight of his horns half sagging him to the side. "You really are a pain in my ass, y'know that?" Where there had been vicious humor before, he's softer now. His defenses down and all of him out in the open, there's little to hide anymore. They've got all their cards out on the table: Murmur with his secrets, him with his.
And Lord, Lord, if this whole night isn't full of surprises.
The Sin's split eyes wander to the ceiling again and the lights throughout the basement immediately flick on to settle into their usual low dim. Greed pensively presses his tongue at the backsides of his elongated teeth. "When you put it that way, I'm sure we can work something out," he starts in and that smile of his speaks so much more volumes. It's sinister and slick; coy, yet thoughtful. Felony's just part of him, isn't it? And good friends, true friends, are always thicker than thieves.
Greed shifts, pockets his hands, and sinks comfortably into his shoulders. "I'll have to ask Roa about the tea. Not really my specialty." He waves sleepily at the air to usher away a few bits of soot. "As long as you don't mind being around them a bit longer, I can make something work. Can't promise some of 'em won't bother you through the night, though." The red lines carved into his face sweat gold only to fizzle out in the crooks and cracks of his horns.
"But I've got a spare room down the hall from mine. Third floor, convenient window, second best view in the place," Greed's feet shift while he walks. Talons first, bare feet next, then back to boots again. It will take a bit longer for the rest of him to settle, sure enough. However, the minor conveniences? Well, it's enough for now.
He saunters to the door frame and checks it. "Well shit, Bido does like you," he starts in with a whistle. Sure enough, the frame's been covered just as Murmur asked. As have every other possible entrance down in the basement.
"I'm sure he's waiting for you. Let's head up stairs and get you that drink."
Greed might not want to admit it, but if Murmur disappeared forever there would be a part of him that missed the feathery pain in his ass. Even if he does come and go as he damn well pleases and is absolutely not at all deferential. It would be weird if he were, would it not?
After giving himself a thorough shake to remove any stray soot from his feathers Murmur dismisses the wings unto wherever it is they hide when he's not showing off. The whole pack didn't need to know his secrets just yet, they still hadn't been tested. After ensuring his tattoos were back in hiding and he looked proper enough he'd turn to follow Greed back down the cluttered dim hallways. "I've told you to stop making assumptions about me, haven't I?" He chided, tone sing-song as he did, an amused lilt replacing his usual monotone. There was a reason he'd been so insistent, and that reason would persist despite Greed's best efforts. Blood angels were known to be unpredictable, and even cool-tempered Murmur was no exception.
"You would have me no other way."
It was just their dynamic. Greed needed someone to pull him out of trouble when he got in too deep, deeper than his cohorts could reach. In return he'd be frustrated and annoyed, because angels were just like that. Ever the light within the dark, for without one how could someone recognize the other? "I think it is more likely they who will be disturbed by my presence than the other way around." Demons didn't bother him, he'd met far more despicable beings than the lot Greed had drummed up. "Perhaps now that the imminent threat is tempered your pup will be calmer." Smarter? No, probably not, but perhaps less obnoxious.
He ponders the offered accommodations a moment. "Does the window open?" If so, it would be a very convenient perch. He could hop in and out at his leisure, no need for fancy hell gate doors. Trailing along behind, he also stops to inspect Bido's work, nodding in approval. He followed the directions well, that should buy them some time and give Murmur the breathing room to reinforce these wards with something a little more durable. "You think so? I simply assumed he was as interested in safeguarding his home as the rest." Offering a nod he pulls away from his inspection to return to following. Tea does sound lovely right about now.
➥ Closed to @ albatrossomen | here's your fucking money
With the chill of winter months forgotten, the warm, stretching days of summer bring about a different kind of commotion. Humans (be them locals, tourists, or those on an unholy sabbatical) crowd the 'Nest throughout the day. Most have come simply for a drink or the peculiar name; a place off the beaten path with enough localized charm and vague appearance that curiosity often won over caution. However, for those who knew what it stood for, it was a place to offer up their patronage. All throughout the day, the Sin is constantly in and out. Hour by hour, minute by minute, he reappears behind the barback only to disappear again into one of the building's many backrooms; his private deals and struck bargains saved for more intimate settings.
By the time night rolls around, most of the patrons have either shuffled away on their own or have been coerced into doing so (namely through Roa's heavy hand), leaving the establishment quiet into the lull of the morning. Shrunk candles and lazy smoke sag sleepily in the dim; their wind down, a perfect match for the welcome silence. Yet, isn't it true?
There's always a calm before the storm.
Despite all of their attempts, it was only a matter of time before someone (or something) came knocking. It starts with a simple hush: the candles go out with a sudden breeze, the electricity hums and vibrates.
And that is when everything goes south, south, south.
The door to the front blows wide, sending bottles and glasses alike smearing like wet paint across a wall. Because what's on the other side aren't their usual guests, oh no. There's a group of them. A group of them with scowling looks and enough distaste and disregard that it's all too obvious that they aren't here for anything good. While most of the group appears to be in somewhat of an order (the way they similarly scan the building with a cool sense of superiority), the smallest stands out like a sore thumb. They're slim, slimy; a tiny thing with long, spiked-black hair and a ghastly expression that's sourly bitter.
Because out of all the Sins, isn't it just Envy to be so, so rotten.
When the fight breaks out, it's messy. Feathers and tar, fire and smoke: they fill up the space in a blackening cloud, swallowing up everything and smudging the insides as angels and devils alike claw in a clash. Some people try to make an escape when one of the angels cuts them off with a gouging slice, leaving the head of the party split from the stomach upward. Bido (who had been near the front) starts to scramble away. Butt first and terror in his eyes, he shuffles blindly through the blood and gore. Bits of what had been a person stain his hands, and as the angel makes for him, the small creature swallows deafly at his own, coming demise.
He doesn't expect it when the angel falls face first onto the floor.
"Just who the fuck do you think you're messing with?"
Greed's voice rolls out, ushering in a thick tornado of soot. With one foot on the angel's back, his body leers out of the dark. Giant horns peel from his skull to grind at the hallway entrance, causing the wood to splinter like bite marks. The angel makes a noise into the floor, but as they try to stand, the Sin presses harder into its back; his raptor(ed) toes digging, just digging, to find a bit of flesh.
"Sorry, I don't think I caught that - " Greed's mouth hardly opens when he talks. Instead, his teeth grind together, causing wafts of ash to foam over his gums. "What, did you think I wouldn't notice? You do know who I am, right?" Mountains of gold pillow under his foot only to grow, wither, and melt like flowers in a sped-up drought. They meet the constant stream of spit running from his mouth and forehead in a flurry of pops and hisses. For that crown of his is a molten one. A thing of desire spiling out, stretching further, to burn everything it touches.
Avarice is all consuming, hungry, and corrosive. It shouldn't be surprising that it's true namesake is the same.
Another pile of coins erupts on the angel's back, withers, and seers into its flesh. Greed leans in closer.
While every now and then Murmur would make a point to complain about this or that about the Nest he still stuck around, the complaints were almost a game at this point. A flitting presence here and gone again, yet somehow he always seemed to be around when he was needed. He wasn't perhaps friends with all of the demons, but he minded his manners and had at least made some headway with the one who made and stocked the tea that he liked.
Tonight, however, something had kept him away when the fight first broke out.
Bar fights weren't uncommon, so much so that by now the angel had grown accustomed to ignoring the cacophony whenever it sprung up. The demons would deal with it handily and things would go back to their usual murmur of noise. At first he'd thought it was just that, right up until the scent of brimstone and charred feathers caught his nostrils.
A blast of frigid air cutting through the heady gloom announced his presence before he appeared, eyes black as they took in the carnage. He moved too calmly, too certain through the chaos to be picked out easily until it was too late for one of the attacking angels who only had enough time to let out a gutteral scream before hitting the floor sans heart. Another, responding to his brother's call found himself slammed across the room first by a massive wing used in lieu of a fist, then pinned under an unforgiving spike of ice. Murmur would always argue he was no warrior, and yet in a moment like this he was as cold and certain as an executioner's axe.
"What is the meaning of this?" He boomed, a voice resonant like thunder, that shook the very foundations of the building. If nothing else he hoped to spook the others away from their onslaught. Make it easier to chase down the responsible party.
Like an iron spoon churning molten honey, the Sin's tongue begins to roll out of his mouth. It crosses over his teeth, lathers over his chin. Under all of his oppressive heat (the suffocation of it, the scorch), Murmur's arrival is a welcome chill. It snaps at the bite of his burn and quells his temper down, down, down just enough for him to think clearly again.
Still, Greed's eyes don't leave the angel he has pinned beneath his claws despite the storm calling him back. No, instead his smile stretches itself fast over his face, yanking what little give he has left. "Looks like my little shit heel of a sibling decided rubbing elbows with some of yours was worth the trouble," he hisses and a wad of spit bubbles from his gums. It squeezes through his teeth, low and slow; the look of it similar to a volcano drooling its lead. When the head of it finally finds the angel's back, it instantly causes the flesh to angrily blister. Red boils, white scorches, and the skin rises in milky, filmy pustules only to inflate, strain, and burst with all their weight in gold.
And oh, how ugly Sin could be when scored.
Greed breathes and a funnel of ash shoos from his throat. "Ha - ! Guess we can be friends after all, handsome. If your lot is willing to fuck around with mine just to get me." His claws sink in deeper to find what he's been desperately searching for. "Hold that thought."
He's not going to ask for permission this time; his core won't let him. Not when he has so much to pay back, not when the angel below him (bleeding, silent, yet still too egotistical to let it show) is just where he wants him. Greed's toes flex and as the bones in his talons wriggle and bury themselves into muscle, a realization sparks in his prisoner's face.
Clipped birds don't sing. And angels? Ah, well -
"Wait - ! Wait - !"
The Sin's eyes twitch, something internally crunches. And when the ash clears, the angel is no more. Greed slides his toes out from a whimpering husk - his feet, his ankles, all but baptized in his cruel foot bath. He smears the floorboards with the leftovers. "Mine, Mur - get them out of here. If you can do that, I'll let you decide what happens to the rest."
One might expect an angel of the Lord to balk at witnessing one of his brethren melted into gore and ash upon the floor, but Murmur was no mere angel. He'd done his time in Hell's prisons, performed his own fair share of vicious atrocities, this is nothing new to him. He watched, impassive and cold as the angel finally lost his nerve and plead in his final moments.
Pathetic.
He sniffed, lip curling in disdain at the miserable display. If they were going to be courageous enough to play at betrayal, they could at least maintain some level of dignity in their final moments. Really, if you were going to fall, you should commit fully. At Greed's request he glanced up, holding his wings higher as he prepared to depart to do just that. "Do as you will. They have made their choice, and thus the consequences they have chosen shall fall."
And with that he was gone, a gust of frigid wind in his wake.
There was one place Murmur knew would prevent angels from hunting them, consecrated ground. It would be unpleasant for the devils to hunker down there, but it would be unspeakable for an angel to perform an act of violence on such ground. So long as they were there, they were safe. Bido would be the easiest to convince, others less so, but Murmur was persuasive and when he wasn't persuasive enough he wasn't against an old-fashioned scruffing. Granted, that wouldn't do him much good whenever one of the angels did catch up with them first.
It was Roa and Dol who proved the hardest to track down, for Murmur anyway... Their pursuer on the other hand had less trouble. And was, unfortunately, more cunning than his brothers had been. He waited until after Murmur had shown himself to try to persuade the two to rendezvous at the church where he was hiding the others before appearing, forcing Murmur on the defensive rather than able to attack from the shadows. Once they were cornered they were set upon, and their attacker was quick to call in reinforcements.
Murmur would never claim to be a warrior, but he wasn't one to surrender so easily when his back was against a wall. Using his wings as a shield he stood between the demons and their would be executioners. "Flee this place, now." He hissed at the two, calling upon his ice magics to help shield against the other angel's attacks. Of course when they refused to flee in a timely manner Murmur sighed, resigning himself to the inconvenience. The little patches of bloody feathers at his shoulders had been a hint, but they hadn't been the whole story.
In a blaze of holy light that swiftly turned a sickened red he relinquished that carefully cultivated veneer of control, releasing the bloodlust that boiled just beneath the surface of all Blood Angels. The leader and his subordinates hesitated, if only for a moment, at the dripping eye-filled rings of halo and blood drenched feathers that greeted them. A moment of hesitation they wouldn't repeat as Murmur punished them severely with a blast of blood-ice shards razor sharp and vicious.
The battle that ensued was vicious, yet even bolstered as he was by a blind rage he was still one angel against three, and a magician at that. The warriors weathered his magic well, but he did not weather their spears and swords as gently. He'd managed to trick one into impaling himself on a pillar of ice by feigning a fall but still took a spear to the gut for his efforts. He tore the wing off another, an act particularly cruel given that he had only brutality behind him to perform the feat. By that time the one remaining decided this fight wasn't worth the life of three angels, collecting his hobbled comrade and absconding. The night was won, though they'd not be so careless of Greed's trump card angel next time.
When they were gone and the threat passed the rage fell, leaving Murmur to deal with his injuries and exhaustion on his own. This was... more exhausting than he'd be willing to admit. Fortunately he didn't have to, because collapsing did that job for him.
It's cool guys just drag him out of the puddles if you would it's very undignified.
It's hours later that he finds him. Well, a hint of him anyway. Churches weren't off limits for him, but they dulled his senses. Where the rest of the world and it's everything shot off in his mind like sparks, heavenly houses always seemed so dreary in comparison. Like faded gray on a canvas otherwise splattered in neon, they dropped into the background like nothing. Their existence, numb and dim.
The door to the church wheezes open, revealing the cold fog of a coming morning. Soft blues chase at the wood frame; a thick haze teases at the entrance. The Sin's hand wraps around the door and as his black-charcoal fingers choke the wood, a hint of his heat follows. A spark traces out the entrance, eating at anything holy and chasing it away with shy puffs of smoke. It's a small thing, really. A way to both make himself known and to ensure there wouldn't be any other unpleasant surprise for the day.
Greed inhales and his vicious 'Shield evaporates, leaving him with his usual face and usual look, save for a light, faint haze of soot that hovers off his skin like dust. He doesn't say anything as he passes by the rows and rows of pews. Instead, his heels fill the silence - their clacks and clicks shooting off and echoing as brittle as bullets in a chamber.
Foul. Bitter. That's how he feels, counting who remained, who was visibly missing, and who had barely made it at all. The Sin's face goes stiff and cold in the church's sleepy-dawn hush. Even Murmur, someone they all considered practically untouchable, had taken his own toll in the fight. It had been minor of course, but considering how the angel seemed out to the entire world even now. Well.
Ffffz, and a cigarette starts to blaze tiredly on his lip. "Doc, start helping out the rest of 'em. Bido," Greed raises his finger off his hip to gesture and cut the air like a hot, burning knife. "-need you to tap your usual channels. See if the Coven has a few things we can use."
Knocked out by the shock of it all (be it from Greed's appearance or the sudden switch to the usual status quo), Bido instantly jumps to the task. He fumbles a small notebook from the insides of his shredded, burnt-edge cloak, his thin claws flipping pages until he finally finds a blank spot. "What should I ask them for? Mr. Greed..?"
The Sin chews angrily on his smoke, shifting it to the left side of his jaw with a sputtering huff of fire in his cheek. "Seven crossroad nails, three dove tails, and the head of a rattlesnake. Tell them I sent you. If they get you what I need right then and there, their debt's paid. Now go," he pauses and his eyes throb behind his sunglasses. "And watch yourself, Bido. Use all the tricks you have. I don't want anyone damaging any more of my things."
While the pep talk may be lacking by normal means, it causes Bido to brighten just a bit. He nods and in an instant, he's gone again. Crawling away, disappearing into the shadows. Greed lifts his chin and as the Doc of the group gets to work, he slowly bends over to check on Murmur. One hand out, he gently places his knuckles to the angel's cheek.
"Hope you're still with me, handsome. Because we have some unfinished business I think you'll be interested in."
The church was chosen because angels, even those pushing the bounds of acceptable allegiances, wouldn't dare commit acts of violence within their territory. Even if they were found, they'd be safe at least from them. Murmur had picked one rather subtle and out of the way, so ideally they should be safe there for the time being. However long it took for Greed to finish cleaning up the mess.
Thankfully Roa and Dol had been kind enough to drag Murmur with them after the altercation and didn't leave him out in the street to be found by someone less savory. He was still out of it by the time Greed arrived, though far less from his injuries and far more from his inability to tolerate the Rage. It was something he fought so hard to suppress, was it any wonder when he did have to use it it took so much out of him? Still, one angel against three were fairly impressive odds considering he'd driven them back unarmed and largely unprepared.
When Greed touched him he twitched, a pulse of energy radiating from him both subtle and undeniable. A quiet dread and rapture alike, warning and welcome, before subsiding back into silence. Murmur was there he was simply recuperating. A few moments longer and he finally managed to crack one eye open, the final dregs of the bloodrage draining from it as he grunted in annoyance. "Wouldn't happen to have brought me a tea, would you?"
Greed pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and lifts it up and away to tap a bit of ash onto the church-room floor. "I'm sure I could come up with something," his lips move in the whispers of smoke as they puff and coil about his face like a thundercloud trapped in a jar. While the Sin flattens one of his hands on his thigh, he lets the other hang lazily between his legs. One twist, and he rolls his wrist, sending the bracelets on his hand hopping and skipping up his arm.
When his fingers finally snap together, something porcelain and fragile shivers delicately between his boots. The cup and saucer he's conjured up aren't his usual, nor do they appear to be anything remotely modern. Blue designs wash themselves against the white; a faint lick of gold lines the lips of both. They match in a way that's purposeful - as if someone long ago had poured their very soul into them to make the perfect pair.
Greed gingerly pushes the steaming drink forward, his pinkie idly yanking at the teabag as softly as a fish trying at a bit of bait. "Sorry if it isn't exactly what you're used to. Not really my specialty."
Idly Murmur waves the smoke away from his face, wrinkling his nose in mild distaste. Normally he doesn't mind much, but right now he's not exactly in his best form so Greed will just have to forgive his poor manners. While Greed worked on his conjuring Murmur shifted to sit himself up, wincing slightly as the pain shooting up his side reminded him he did indeed just take an angelic spear to the gut... and that he should probably take it easy for a while.
Human weapons he could shrug off like they were nothing, even demon arms were more nuisance than menace, but angel blades were designed to kill not only demons but their own brethren. It's who they first went to war with, after all. You see this is exactly why he usually doesn't stick around for fights. After his momentary distraction due to still bleeding he refocuses on Greed and the tea. Well, one couldn't argue he didn't at least have style. Flavor may be a different story.
Gingerly he reached out to accept the offering, granting Greed a wry smile. "I am not especially picky, it should be sufficient. My thanks." That'll hit the spot. "Did everyone make it out?"
Greed's pupils dilate violently, the heat in them still struggling to simmer to a cool. Murmur's question hits hard. The ones that made it out are a sorry bunch now, spending their time licking their wounds or tending to those who are far more worse for wear. Others, however. The Sin's mouth forms like a flash chill to gold; his frown soft, but firm.
"Don't worry about it," he says, lowly. "For now, need you to take care of yourself, hmn?" Greed tongues the filter of his smoke to drag in a fresh breath of ash. Ash. That's where some of them went. Burned to dust and scattered only to be lost to neither Heaven nor Hell, but to the void in between. A nothing, an emptiness.
The Sin stretches his legs and as the tendons snap and crunch, he casts a look over the pews. Dolcetto and Roa, over at the old-wood confessional, cleaning their cuts and slices with fresh brandy. Martel tending to Bido in the most comforting way she can. Bido and his visible tremors making his hood quiver in the gloom. Greed's jaw sets and threatens the filter of his cigarette, making the paper and tobacco floss brisk between his teeth.
He pops something against the inside of his cheek and a peel of lemon sleepily unfurls around his knuckles; the look of it like a snake, hatching from a shell. "Just in case you need it," he slurs before gingerly pinching the curl at the rim of Murmur's cup.
A delicate topic to be sure, but one that needed to be clarified nonetheless. It was important to know their status, they were safe only for the moment after all. Hands may be needed sooner rather than later.
"It is for prudence that I ask, while they are unlikely to attack us in this place, it is best to know where we stand." He echoes that frown, taking Greed's silence to mean that of those not scattered about the temporary safe zone, it was unlikely they'd be returning. His gaze followed Greed's, they were in a sorry state, likely the Nest wouldn't survive another surprise assault. Not like this. "Tell me, did they happen to collect that fallen wing in their retreat?"
A strange, macabre request perhaps but Murmur had a reason for it. He always did, after all, and removing the wing while allowing its owner to escape with their life had been a calculated maneuver. Allowing himself a momentary distraction he accepted the lemon, plopping it with grace into his tea. "My gratitude," He does, in fact, like the flavor.
Something coy tugs at the corner of his mouth. Between the cigarette smoke and the ghostly blue of the abandoned church, a heat suddenly fumes across his face; as if some want, some desire, has already been satisfied.
Greed inhales, eating away half of his cigarette. "Know me too well, don't you?" Purring, he breathes his words into life in a rush of air through his nose. "Doc's got it in the safest place in the world." The Sin cants his head, causing the rest of his body to tip and teeter like a dancer drunk on applause. "Figured it'd be a good spot. Besides, it gives me an excuse to give our good ol' friends upstairs a message in return for the shit they pulled tonight."
He slinks back and as his heels rap-rap-rap across the church floor, the Sin takes the lead. He weaves away from the pews and up to the ceremonial platform; his legs and torso maneuvering between wreckage and stockpiles alike more similar to a vulture plucking its way through a funeral's buffet.
It's only when he gets to the confessional, does he pause. What had probably been a pristine structure once has quietly transformed over the night. The wood's been smeared in oil - a dump of ashtrays, matchboxes, and cash from the bar litters the carpet. Greed takes it all in with a lopsided grin; his eyes reignited to a gassy purple-pink.
He strikes the back of his teeth with his tongue. "Welcome to our little congregation handsome. Let me show you around - " He starts and with a gentle lift of his wrist, the curtain to the confessional pulls away, revealing the severed wing. Someone, at some point, had taken the time to carefully wrap it. Red-silk curtains from the bar's private rooms loop around the feathers, leaving it cushioned, yet stable for transport.
The Sin shuffles to one side of the tight space to leave Murmur enough room to enter. "Thought it might be worth saving," he pinches his cigarette from the tip to snuff it between his fingers. "Guess they weren't wrong, huh?"
Greed leans forward, his lips pursed. For a while, he just stares at it - all the feathers left without an owner, how much space it fills. There's worth there, and he knows it. It calls to him like blood to a shark. The price of it, the power of it, the sheer unfathomable possibilities.
Yet -
The cigarette butt finds the confessional's floor and the Sin eases back and away into a sluggish slouch. "Equivalent exchange," he remarks, absently. "For what you did back there. It's yours."
"I make it a habit to know well those I choose to engage with, yes," He responded with a wry smirk of his own. Gingerly he moved to stand, wincing slightly at the sting. The wound would heal quickly enough, but angelic weapons were particularly suited to damaging other angels just as well as they were designed to cut down demons. Of course he knew they'd collect the fallen wing, they couldn't resist a treasure like that. Nor the act of revenge it represented.
That was all part of Murmur's calculated plan.
Sipping his tea he moved to follow, curious how Greed would define the "safest place" possible for such a thing. Of course, he quickly regretted wondering and had to shake his head at the sight of such a defiled confessional. Not that he had any particular attachment to the practice, the ways of mortals were not the ways of angels after all. How they decided to repent was up to them... even so, this church was one he did not want the demons getting too comfortable in. It was still consecrated ground, after all, and that was the very thing protecting them right now. Angels would not perform violence here, it would be unsavory to them.
For now even they were granted sanctuary in such a place.
"I expected they might," He looked pleased, brushing past the Sin to inspect his prize. He did raise an eyebrow at all the pomp and show of gifting it to him, and couldn't help the faint exasperation that escaped him. It belonged to him by right of battle, but that was hardly the part he was exasperated by. "You really must stop underestimating me, Avarice." Now he's using the name to express his disappointment. "This," He reached out and tweaked a feather, and for the briefest moment a flash of a most predatory grin crossed his features. "Is bait. I have already laid the groundwork. Three cast from their earthly vessels, three failing to tear down a tarnished traitor, and one to lose a wing in the process. Not only have we cost them grave injury, but more than that they have been humiliated. This one will stop at nothing to have his wing returned, lest he be disgraced for eternity."
There was a triumph there, subtle and yet as sharp as any of his blades of ice. As though victory could be claimed already in a battle not yet even fought. "With this, you have an avenue for revenge. Moreover you have an avenue for information, which is far more valuable now as forces align against you. We have but to lay the trap."
Murmur planned it all out. As soon as the attack happened every step had been calculated, every angel taken down, every angel allowed to escape, and even his own injury had all been moves in a greater game. Greed was lucky this one was on his side.
Just as swiftly as the first had gone out, a new cigarette appears between the Sin's fingers in a single, slick motion. He plays with it; flipping it over a knuckle, making it disappear into the palm of his hand only to have it appear out the other side again with nothing but air and an assurance of a quick fix.
Greed arches an eyebrow and as it breaks over the rims of his shades, the look on his face is uncanny. It's sick with desire; fumed with want. But it isn't for his usual. Gold, riches, women, company, sex - no, those couldn't hold a candle to what he truly desires. That need, no that right for pure, raw vengeance; it grips at him like a snare. The corner of his mouth shrinks and his teeth crack open, inviting and welcoming the butt end of his cigarette as smoothly as a signature to paper.
When his thumb ignites again, the flame shimmers to a rich, fat-bellied gold. "Sounds like you've got this all planned out," he swirls his tongue to release a spiral of fresh smoke. "-knew I shouldn't underestimate you. It's pretty impressive." He ashes a bit onto the floor and carefully smooths out any hot coals with the heel of his boot. "Made a few calls of my own. The Coven - " Trilling, the Sin lifts a hand into the air to twirl at a strand of soot until it condenses and reshapes itself into something of a curvy figure. "-Bido's making sure they take care of the rest. By tonight, the 'Nest'll be back in working order. Just might be harder for some of my infrequent visitors to find the place for a while. You still got the thing I gave you?"
The matchbox: a one-way ticket. Greed fumbles through his pockets to pull one out. "If not, I got one of these left for the time being. Call it a precaution." He pushes the side with his thumb to check the contents and a couple of measly sticks rattle and roll into a corner. "Don't have a lot left, so you'll have to hold off until then. In the meantime, I have my own to deal with."
Because heavenly bodies weren't the only ones working tonight, oh no. They had help. Help from deep below in a crooked shape and a vile face that he knew all too well.
The devil sharpens his teeth on the filter of his cigarette, making the paper wheeze like a lung, blackened by disease. "Never been one to pass on a discount myself. And what's better than two for the price of one? Besides - " Red brands behind his sunglasses, burning into the glass and pulsing as sure as a wildfire raging deep in a wooded pit. "-I think it's about time little Envy got their dues."
At this juncture Murmur would find it more strange if his proposition didn't elicit a dramatic response. Greed was a creature easy to predict, by his nature he coveted everything there was or ever could be to covet, but the trick was in knowing what he valued. It wasn't simple gold or trophies, no, it was those who he had claimed as his own. And Envy had made a dreadful mistake in bringing harm upon them. It was only reasonable to quell this threat before things got out of hand.
"Still working out some of the details," Murmur continued, moving to find himself a clear spot on the pew to rest and sip his tea, apparently unbothered by the severed limb in his company. He gestured for Greed to join him, they'd not had a moment to truly sit and discuss much of anything, much less tactics. At the question he reached into one of the many inner pockets in his thick coat, drawing out the box of so far unused matches to rattle it at the Sin. He'll be fine, and if need be he's sure he could collect a few more.
Before Greed could leave him so quickly again he chimed in: "I have a request."
"And what sort of details would those be?" The Sin asks, his voice tangled up in a slur. The sound that shivers out of him is a mix of a purr and a hum; the tune of it, a sweet, honey-suckle poison. Because he is predictable. What he wants is simple, what he craves is easy: an eye for an eye, a tooth of a tooth, and if Envy is the ugly monster, Avarice?
Avarice is the loaner quick on the heels whenever jealousy overextends its reach.
Greed tosses his cigarette into a ceremonial goblet as he follows Murmur's lead, leaving the idea to simmer for a later time. "Not exactly a clean night, so I don't expect results right away," he starts in while his body falls into an empty spot on the pew. With no regard to the sanctimony of things, he lets his legs and arms sprawl. He hooks his heels up and across the back of the pews and the rest of him sags to fill up the space. His whole demeanor still casual, cool.
"Oh-?" He cocks his head slightly to the side. "And here I thought you'd never take me up on an offer. Well, shit - " The Sin pops his lips, causing something hot to stir in his cheek. "Name it. Whatever you want," he begins before cutting himself off with a wave. "-no strings attached. Devil's honor."
"The where, for a start. Choose a suitable location, one that would be unlikely to arouse more suspicion than necessary. I will need time to prepare the binding wards, but it shall be done. Once that is in place we need merely bait the trap. Between my work and that of the coven capturing your messenger pigeon will be assured."
Again an eyebrow rose, the faintest hint of a smirk briefly touching his features, more tooth than necessary and with an air that he expects Greed will soon come to dislike what it is he wishes to request. "It is not for me," Of course not, it never is. "The angel. I would prefer it if you did not slaughter him. While he has transgressed against you remember that they act on orders and little else. Doubtful he even understands the web he's fallen into. Being forcefully evicted from one's Earthly body is agony enough, but outright destruction is..." He looks distant for a moment, maybe even pained, but it's brief and Murmur is a master of keeping his facial features under control.
"Their numbers only dwindle. There is only one method by which angels come into existence and a new one has not been created in millennia. Your display of mercy will not go unnoticed."
He may be an exile, but he still carries the weight of duty even if it seems counter intuitive.
Greed's fingers tip and tap atop the pew in thought. "I think I have a spot that'll work. But the rest of them stay here," he orders, his nail stopping short enough on the wood to draw a thin line. "I don't need any more of my things getting damaged. That being said, the place hasn't been touched in a while, so I might have to clear it out myself. How much time do you need?"
But for how quickly that serious tone comes, it's gone; in a flash of teeth, in a too-wide grin that gapes, stretches, and promises to one day, oh one day, swallow the world and everything in it. The Sin's eyebrows touch ever-so-slightly together; his face, a picture-perfect vision of eagerness. "Somehow, I thought that'd be the case - you really push a hard bargain, friend." His tongue lashes, splitting and reforming together again like magnetic glue.
However, his expression drops. Vengeance, payback: it's a thin line for him to walk. Because Murmur isn't wrong. The angel has already been stripped to its core; reduced and smothered, a punishment worse than anything he could possibly give. Still, that core of his twists and writhes. It pushes up his throat, making his jaw set and his eyes wander, as if looking for an answer. "It's a waste. I get it. Still," a heat rises off his finger as it turns crooked and sharp, making the wood of the pew hiss in a smoke. "-no one takes what's mine, Angel. I hope, for his sake, he remembers that."
Greed yanks his heels down, causing them to smack hard against the church's stony floor. "I'll make sure he doesn't die, but I can't promise anything else." Meaning, well, anything. Because isn't it true? A pound of flesh is a drop in the bucket.
And greed, ah greed: how it always calls for more.
"It is best they keep their distance." He agreed. There wasn't any need to utilize more of the Nesters, best to not have to worry about keeping them out of harm's way while trying to trap an angel. Even one of lower rank, such as the one whose wing he tore off, was a dangerous adversary to demons and their kin. "I will require time enough to collect materials, should you find yourself taking longer than I to clear the space then I suppose I could lend a hand." Loathe as he was to do so, despite his display Murmur did not enjoy fighting.
"I never do things by halves, you should know that by now." He responded in kind with an echoed smirk, much diluted compared to Greed's all-consuming grin. It was a difficult request, but an important one all the same. He had a feeling Greed would come to see it his way. "Your actions will be remembered, of that I can promise you. For angels, mercy is not weakness it is divine. They will know the threat for what it is, that you had every right to take back what was taken from you and then some. In light of that siding with any of your brethren again will be unlikely."
Murmur gestured dismissively, he wasn't asking Greed to be gentle by any means. "Do as you will, it will be a valuable lesson in vetting allegiances. Besides, at the end of this your reward will be much more delectable than one plucked pigeon." Greed could do whatever he wanted to Envy, especially once his Heavenly envoy had been dispersed.
Rising out of the crook of the pew, Greed gives a slow, dismissive wave over his shoulder. "No, no need. I can take care of it," he drawls in, his voice as fine as churning smoke. There's something about the way he stands (the semi-slouch, the way one of his heels lifts drearily off the floor to hover on the point of his toe) that says it all. He's weighing it out; chewing it. The debate of what he wants and his own, self-inflicted rules battling for control.
On the one hand, killing would be a waste, sure enough. On the other hand, he deserved something. Retribution: a tax, a payment with interest, and if Heaven wasn't about to pay the fee, well.
A series of holes begin to pit under the point of his boot; their formation, sluggish and pickled in rot. Greed's shoulders stiffen. "A valuable lesson - is that it?" A drop of wet falls form his mouth and sizzles gold onto the concrete. "You really are a pain, you know. But fine - it's a deal." He pockets his hands and as the angry smear beneath his foot puts itself out, the Sin lets his body fall lax; his ego, all but coming in to smother the notion.
He can wait. After all, his real target should be easy to bait. Envy was and is a predictable creature. No doubt, it's still licking its wounds from earlier. And a loss for jealousy? Well, that would just piss it off enough to do something stupid, wouldn't it?
Greed's mouth wrangles itself into its usual, self-appreciating grin. "Give me a couple of hours. I'll call you on Martel's phone." He thumbs over his shoulder to gesture back at the crew behind him. "She can give you the direction of the place once I'm done."
Murmur wasn't telling Greed not to get his due, not at all, he was simply directing that retribution in a more... constructive direction. A war with Heaven would do nothing but cause more loss. It was unnecessary, and more than that Heaven didn't need pulled into the quarrel between warring Sins. It wasn't normal for them to get involved in such things anyway, this would only serve as a reminder.
And in a way, paint Greed in the light that Murmur saw him, or at the very least the light he pretended was the case: Predictable, and most interested in maintaining his own little kingdom. Not a threat to Heaven, not a threat to stability. Murmur was gambling that in the long run those of the Holy City would be disinclined to repeat this endeavor and instead choose to leave Greed to his devices. He keeps to his own, they to theirs, and the other Sins will have to find new pawns for their games. Murmur of course would always be on their hit list, but that was a problem for a later date.
With Heaven out of the way peaceably, Greed could focus his efforts on the real problem: Envy. "There are other boons to this path," Murmur advises, mysterious as ever. He's not going to go into unnecessary detail, he's not lead Greed astray yet. Finishing off his tea he set the cup aside gingerly, pushing it back toward the Sin to return to his treasury, wherever that might be. "Excellent. Understood. I will return when I have obtained what I need."
He'd like more time to heal, but time was never a gift he had enough of. Before Greed could say anything else he was gone, little more than a gentle cool breeze and the faintest flap of a wing to signal his departure. He'd return by the appointed hour.
➥ Closed to @ albatrossomen | the devils, they do the despicable
On the outside, the building's in a sad state of dilapidation. The heat's cooked the old brick to a chalky kind of white. Like the bones of a beast long-since dead, they loom baked and forgotten; the stamp of a former business, a faded memory. Even the windows don't give much away. Nailed-in boards cover what had probably once been full panes of glass back in its prime and the shutter-door tin around front's pocketed in rust holes that gap and gasp as if trying desperately, so desperately, to take a breath. The town's a ghost. A tomb. One empty, quiet, and made of dust.
It goes against everything he is, being back here. The garage had once been his haunting ground; a place he lurked, did business, and turned a would-be profit. Those times had been different. He still had a mild connection with them back then. Not friendly, not in line, no, but a cordial kind of relationship where one of them could drop something in his lap and instead of trying to kill him, all they asked was, "How much?"
Funny, how life comes full circle.
Greed pushes a chair back, making it tilt unevenly on its legs. The man he has strapped to it looks like he's seen better days. His skin is sickly and blue; the sweat sticking to him is filmy like soap scum. His eyes, though: those are the most telling. Even under the cop-bright swing lamp, they glow a smokey kind of green. A neon toxic, poisoning with otherworldly radiation.
The Sin leers forward and as his claws grip and hold the edge of the lamp, his jaws curl upwards. The cigarette in his mouth all but illuminates his smile in a fluorescent, wet-slick sneer. "Hey, hey," he snap his fingers in front of the man's face. "No, you don't get to quit on me just yet, friend. We've still got some things to talk about."
In response, the man spits a glowing wad of wet onto the floor, painting the concrete in a blacklight smear. Greed merely looks at it, and with a petulant look and an exasperated grunt, he swipes the tip of his boot over the spittle. "Ehh - see, that wasn't very nice," he slurs his words through curtains of smoke. They part over his face as soft as a graying blush, kissing and dusting his expression.
The devil sighs, removing his cigarette. "I get it. I really do. But that sibling of mine did something pretty stupid, even for them. And because they couldn't help themselves, and because you don't seem too different, we've now found ourselves here." He inhales sharply, causing a flutter of leftover smoke to wind on the corner of his mouth. "So, I'll ask you again. Where is Envy now?"
"I told you to fuck off - " The man hisses. Where his voice should be hoarse and dry, the tone of it is thick. Gurgled. It splits in two in his throat: one, that sickness. The other, a desperate, raspy sound like a drafty window or a gas leak. The man is sick, and not in the normal way humans get. That bright, throbbing green in his spit, the way his veins squirm like worms, the corpse(y) shade of his skin. It's a cancer. An envious leech, consuming everything he is, everything he was, until there's nothing left. The deep bruises under his eyes sink into his sockets and a foam slowly froths and shrinks on his lips, slicking the cracks to a gross, Vaseline sheen.
Greed's frown dips. He shakes his head and ashes his cigarette on the man's thigh. "Yeah, already too gone, aren't you? That's a shame - " With a vacant look, the Sin leisurely begins to crush his cigarette into the other's forehead. Twist by twist, grind for grind, he drills the ember into the man's skin; the hiss of flesh and burnt hair crawling in whiffs of green disease.
The familiar voice came from above, emotionless as ever. Little more than a dark silhouette punctuated with two copper-sulfate fire eyes perched on a beam as comfortable as though he'd been there the whole time. Perhaps he had been, Murmur did have a terrible habit of being where he wasn't wanted for far longer than anyone might desire. Even Greed.
He didn't budge from that perch, merely watched Greed with that peculiar intensity of his. Just what, exactly, was he offering here?
Halfway deep into the man's forehead, the Sin calmly pauses. His eyebrows stretch sleepily up his forehead; his look, a comical combination of slight annoyance and dramatic exasperation. Because, of course, the Angel would speak in riddles even now, wouldn't he?
Greed pulls his hand away, shaking the cigarette out before tossing it to the concrete. "Y'know, it would be a lot easier if you just cut to the chase, Feathers," he starts in through a cracking smile. Because he couldn't stay mad at Murmur, no. Not after all he's done, not after everything they've been through. Truly, he should be used to it by now. Where devils are clear cut with their intentions, angels? They're vague, abstract creatures with tongues laced in enough convoluted and ambiguous directions that'd it be easy, all too easy, to get lost in a simple conversation.
So instead of guessing, the devil merely throws his hands over his head in slack surrender. "If you've got a better way, I'm all ears," he hums and turns his wrists, exposing his palms to the ceiling. "Otherwise, I'm gunna do him the favor." Greed grips his hip on one side and uses his other hand to lift the man's head back, showing the knotted veins writhing in his throat.
"Envy's been using this one for a while, so either way, he isn't coming back from it once we're done."
It was a difference in origin. While creatures of horror and vice, demons were rooted in a semblance of reality. Borne of twisted souls and darkest desires they may at times seem alien, but the allure was in how very human they were at their cores, even those that had never been. The difference was merely in how extreme they took those desires and ran with them. They were, after all, forbidden cravings. Angels on the other hand were something else entirely. Fragments of the very universe given form, mathematics and stardust swirled into beings and granted thought. Was it then any wonder that an entity that existed on the furthest edges of where matter began to take form, and traversed time as one might walk a mountain path, would have a method of speech and thought always jut a little bit perplexing?
After all, Murmur believed himself being quite frank and clear in his words, as such Greed's display of exasperation earned little more than a puzzled expression and a faint bird-like tilt of his head. "Would you like to try again?" He repeated, emphasizing the last word as though that somehow would make his meaning more clear. "If so, then I suggest you move this along..."
He lets the words drip cold, hanging heavy in the are like a late evening's freezing fog, only breaking the silence long enough to add: "Leave the vocal cords intact."
In other words, hurry up. What exactly he planned to do once the deed was done was anyone's guess. Angels didn't often make it a habit of letting anyone know exactly what sets of skills they had up their sleeves.
The burnt smear in the man's forehead smolders, letting off trails of leaky, sewer-pipe smoke. Greed watches it - the pricks of his eyes shrinking to needling points. Murmur's coyness doesn't catch him off guard. Least, not anymore. It's part of the usual: the status quote, the inch-to-mile ratio they've built over the years, and there's a million possibilities of just what the Angel has planned.
The Sin shrugs his shoulders. "Suit yourself," he hums while a second skin lithely slinks up his arm. It plays on his flesh as jaggedly as an audio turner; the pattern, sporadic. Where there had been fingers and knuckles, it's now claws and smooth carbon that remains. The epitome of avarice made hard, made sharp, made deep, deep down like buried treasures birthed by sheer pressure and force alone.
It only takes one swipe to open up the man's thigh.
"Could have just said something before. I wouldn't have wasted my time," Greed consciously sidesteps away as the blood floods in. And flood it does. From the garish tear, a thick, blackened-red pusses out of the man. Large bubbles breathe themselves to the surface, their pcks and pops phlegmy and diseased. Whether the individual feels it at all is anyone's guess. But his blank face, his slowly paling complexion: they say otherwise. He's too far gone. Too far taken by jealousy, it's promises, and it's delivery of complete and absolute nothing.
Greed flicks his wrist, sending a painter's sprinkle of blood onto the floor.
"And deprive you of your entertainment?" Murmur asked, a lilt of amusement in his tone.
The angel watched, his gaze intent while expression as emotionless as it ever was. There was something about his posture, though no obvious shift had occurred a tension had grown, a coil spring wound so tight it was ready to snap and when it did...
He swooped. Wings no more than a faint shadow in the dim light, a light breeze to twist and turn the smoke that hung heavy in the air. Predatorily he stalked around his prey, coming to lean just up beside the dying man's ear from behind. He sniffed, inhaling deep and for the briefest moment there was a flash of just a few too many teeth to be considered a smile. The man was quite still by now, unquestionably dead, and yet Murmur didn't seem put off by this in the least. Murmur, close to his ear, whispered: "Come back."
No response.
"Come baack~." Sing-song, almost mocking as he called into the dead man's ear. For several more moments there was nothing, how could there be? None could drag the dead back from Hell's gates... surely?
Yet he twitched. "There you are," Murmur crooned encouragingly. "Come back. Follow my voice." A twitch, a sputter, a phlegmy gurgle as blood and mucous crawled from the man's desperate lungs and out of his throat. He was a right sight, choking and coughing and yet undeniably what had been quite thoroughly dead was... at least some vague facsimile of alive. Murmur moved just enough to peer into his eyes, the terrified man peered back but before the gurgling sound could become a scream a hand slammed his jaw shut, a finger tapping out a firm "no" against his lips and all that escaped was a pathetic whimper.
"None of that," He snapped firmly. And when the tears began to well he sighed in disgust and stood, releasing the man's jaw. "Enough. Really, a little death and you fall apart so easily. Leave all that bravado back in Hell did you?"
The man, now trembling in an effort to control his sobbing only looked at Murmur in horror. "Y-y-... you know?" He croaked, voice cracked and strained in his tortured vessel. "Can... you can spare me, can't you? Take me out of there."
Again Murmur only stared at him impassively. Unmoved by the pleas. "No." The sobbing picked back up. "But I can offer a temporary stay of execution," Again he leaned in, this time to hiss the words with the underlying threat of 'I can send you back whenever I want.'
"So long as you prove useful to me. Do we have an understanding?"
Solemnly the man nodded, it would appear that even a few moments on the rack were enough to urge a little more cooperation. Moving back around to the front Murmur made a grand gesture for Greed to continue.
"He should be feeling more... amenable to our cause."
Surely, maybe, but there's his old phrase coming right back: nothing's impossible and there's no such thing as no such thing. Even for souls far lost, far gone, far locked away behind a fiery key and a cage of brimstone - they had a chance. Not for salvation, not a Hell's chance, but for a second to say their peace. Or, in this case, to provide a sliver of information that could be useful. He'd never say that Angel wasn't handy in that way. Sometimes, it took a crooked tongue and a little coaxing. But here? They needed a bit more of that heavenly charm. And as Murmur purrs the man's soul back into the land of the living, the Sin's quiet isn't light, it's heavy. A shadowy weight coiled between one wingbeat and the next, waiting for the call.
A lighter loudly clicks open, spinning up spark and fire as he breathes life into a new cigarette. "Now that is a terrible trick," Greed's voice is rough through the smoke. It tangles with it, melds with it, as if the two are one in the same. "Glad I'll never have to go through that." Because he could only imagine. How it would feel to sink down, down, down, only to be ripped back up again. Souls, mortal ones anyway, are fragile things. They're easy to tear apart. Piecing them back together again, though? That takes skill. Finesse. It's something neither him nor his can or would ever be able to do. Even in Heaven, it's a rare thing. So for it to come so easily, so simply, well -
The devil's inhale is slow and relaxed as he drags puff after puff deep into his chest. He'll have to ask later. For now, business calls.
"Welcome back," Greed snarls through a smile that's the furthest thing from nice. "Enjoy the trip, ya little pissant?" A litter of ash trembles off his cigarette as it bobs and jumps on the sharps of his teeth. "Gunna take your silence as a no. So, why don't we start from the beginning, hmn?" The Sin circles while he talks. He gives a wide birth at first, only to narrow as he goes; his lazy stroll punctuated by his heels as they tnk and clck atop the concrete floor like a bell tolling off hours. "You made a deal with one of mine. And now that ugly little piece of shit's decided to hightail it outta here."
He makes a second circle before moving in front of the man. Where there had been a bit of mirth in his look before, a cool expression passes over his face. It's distant and a aloof; focused and chilled. A fire forced low, low, low, yet still burning despite his efforts. There's no doubting his nature in the moment: he's a devil. The kindness, the playful tone, the flirting on an all-too-satisfied smile. He can't muster any of them. The man may not have been part of the raid on the 'Nest, but he's connected.
And avarice, ah. It's never said no to burning a few loose ends.
Greed edges his palm over the back of the chair, letting his nails bite fresh ash into the frame. "Envy," he says. "You're going to tell me where they are. After that, well. I would say I'm sorry, but you've made things a bit difficult for me. And I'm a little tired of being fucked around with. Think you understand, don't you?"
The man seems to understand and as he gingerly nods his skull, the Sin rolls his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. "Glad we can understand each other. I can't make you a deal that'll save you - you already fucked yourself on that. But prove yourself needy enough, and you might just have a better chance." He tips the chair back just a bit more to get his point across and the man tenses up, bracing for the fall. "Ah, yeah, that translates, doesn't it? Don't have to explain myself twice."
Greed leans forward to sigh a blistering cloud of smoke in the man's face. "Show me where they went."
Eyes flicking briefly to the devil, expression as unreadable as ever, Murmur let out a faint breath through his nose. "Did you think your kind held the monopoly on terrible?" He asked, perhaps genuinely, though with him it is always hard to say what stirs beneath the surface of those deep waters. It was true this was not a gift they all possessed, fewer still would be willing to put to use unless absolutely necessary. It left the impression that while new angels hadn't been made in a very, very long time, Murmur still counted as exceptionally old among them. Perhaps even among the first. Who could say? If Greed wanted answers, he would have to learn how to ask for them.
At Greed's sentiment of being grateful he'd never be yanked around like a puppet on a string Murmur simply smirked, something cold and almost predatory there before he turned his eyes back to his new pet monkey. For the time being Murmur would return to his lurking just out of the light, observing silently while Greed pressed the man for information.
When the final question fell the man seemed equal parts terrified and troubled, he feared Envy of course, but he also feared these two. Greed and his barely repressed violence, and the strange lurking angel that just ripped him from Hell and could send him back at any moment. Which was worse, he couldn't decide. "I-I-I can't... I don't know how..."
Murmur moved in again, hissing in his ear. "Then you will take us there."
As though he had sensed that the reason the man couldn't tell them was because he lacked a method by which to explain, but this gave him a different option. One he wasn't certain he liked much better... but what choice did he have? He nodded, if it weren't for the whole death thing he'd be sweating bullets right now.
Greed releases the chair, making the legs thunder against the concrete as if they are the only sound in the world, and the dim lamp hanging above the man blares briefly to a white-hot simmer. It's clear from the pressure in the bulb (and the painful whine it makes), the Sin is either intrigued, irritated, or a healthy combination of both. However, his face is completely unreadable. Uncharacteristically so. Chilly, smoldering, distant, and oh-so present: he's a mix of it all. A mix of everything, and isn't that so greed.
Another roll of smoke winds off his tongue as it splits in two before wetly zippering back together in strings of sweet-spun gold. "Guess I can't say no to that option. It's not like we have any other good ones." The devil unclips a ring from his belt and slides one of his nails between the clasp, releasing a key that looks fairly new. "At least tell me you're smart enough to handle a stick, friend."
Though he doesn't get an answer, Greed tosses the key to the floor. It lands between the man's spread heels; its nickel sheen almost glittering. Like a token from the ferry man thrown just out of reach. The Sin watches the man try to nudge it closer and as the metal disappears under the sole of a shoe, the slits of his eyes wildly expand again.
"Had to get a chauffeur, didn't you?" He asks Murmur, the sarcasm coming back, back, back in huffs of sulfur-burnt tobacco. "Y'know, you may have some talents there, feathers, but that ego of yours is really fucking something. Eh, whatever," he sucks at his smoke and eats away what's left of the cigarette in one long inhale. "Guess I should expect it by now, shouldn't I?"
Greed tosses the remnants of his half-cooked filter to the floor and grinds it with his heel, forcing bits of ash to scatter like spiders disturbed from their nest. "We'll do it your way, this time." The Sin steps to the side of the chair and gives it one last shove of his foot. Again, the legs teeter and totter, and the man scrambles around his loosening (and when did that happen?) binds. And as the ropes fall away, Greed strolls out towards the door; his back, an expanding shadow that seems to eat and bite at the floor as if a thousand or more souls were trapped inside, clawing to break free.
The display of heat and rage didn't seem to trouble the angel much, though it was still very effective in causing their new pet to tremble with fear. He knew he was in deep, there wasn't any getting out of this now. Somehow he doubted running would do any good, and he still wasn't sure which one was worse: The demon who made his viciousness and rage clear, or the angel that was impossible to read but dangled him on a spider's web all the same. Who knew death would be so complicated?
At Greed's quip Murmur smirked faintly, offering him his most innocent look and a faint shrug. "Now I know I've told you before I don't do monkey work, Greed." Driving, apparently, counted as monkey work. "You really must start listening when I speak." He doesn't only do it for his own amusement, after all.
Just partly.
Chuckling at the Sin's retreating back he glances over at the human fumbling to adjust to his newfound lack of feeling. That will take some getting used to, and he better be quick about it. "Come along, do try to keep up." For this one he would have far less patience than he's had with the demon.
Over his shoulder, the Sin sweeps his hand with half-hearted wave. His fingers cock off to the side and a mix leftover smoke and his own, silky soot twirl together as sure as a gun in the after shot.
"Yeah, yeah. I heard you before," he hums as he spins his gaze downward to trace out their vehicle in question. It isn't his usual choice of car. The paint job's seen better years; its color and chrome faded and beaten by the cruel fist of the sun. He traces a faint line of steel trim running its body and as a thin, bone-colored blush of dust collects on his finger, the devil's smile charms right back into place. It takes very little for his attentions to wander. And where there had been rage, burning, now there's a venomous satisfaction.
Because he'll take what he's owed. He'll take what's his. And he'll take it just as the good book says. A pound of flesh adds up, after all.
Greed jerks the driver's side door open, making the springs inside it groan and croak like a casket, airy with age. "Well, c'mon, bring you little plaything so we can get a move on. Envy doesn't stay in one place for too long." He gives the door a none-too-subtle kick with his shoe if only to snap their human guide to the task at hand.
Truly, despite how much of a pain Murmur can be, that feeling? It's certainly mutual. And he's willing to follow his lead if it means he'll get his well-deserved payout.
Murmur had moved to follow after Greed, his pace unhurried and his demeanor unconcerned. They would find Envy, all in good time. Really all he needed was a starting point, the pet would get them there... even if he failed to get them there in time. The aforementioned man had spent some time scrabbling to pick up the key, fumbling it back to the floor more times than Murmur apparently found acceptable.
"Get moving!" He snapped, the previously heated air now shifting to a biting, cruel cold.
"You try pickin' things up when you can't feel your fingers..." The man was muttering, finally managing to paw the key into an awkward meaty hand.
"Be silent," Murmur gestured, clamping his fingers together like the closing of a mouth, and the man found himself gagging and gasping, unable to speak. Apparently he was already irritated by the complaints. "Drive, monkey." He nearly snarled, the cold causing delicate curls of ice to form on every surface before it finally subsided.
This was a side of Murmur Greed probably hadn't seen much. Evidently the angel was not beyond cruelty, and certainly had no grace left to give to one who had so willingly damned his soul. Especially for one who damned it over envy of all sins. For his part Murmur helped himself to the passenger seat, spending the time to level an expectant, judging stare at the now silent man shuffling to take his spot behind the wheel.
Coolly, the Sin plucks his fingers off the roof as he watches the ice crawl its way slowly up the car. He keeps the tips of his nails a hair's breath away; the distance of them more similar to that of a man, faintly mapping out a lover's gentle curves. Greed ticks one of his eyebrows curiously above the frames of his sunglasses. Out of the two of them, Murmur has always been the one a bit more kempt. A bit more put together, letting no one, no thing, get a glimpse of what truly lies beneath. So, seeing him snap? Even for a second?
Oh, oh, oh, can he not help but look.
The devil flashes a thin smile before opening one of the backdoors. A crisp sheet of chill snaps off the lip, sending a little dusting coughing to the ground like a short, snowy squall. "Might want to listen to him, friend," Greed tongues as he slides into the seats in the rear. He sprawls out one of his legs, slapping his heel against the center console with a solid thunk. "-even I haven't seen him like this before. Would be a lot easier on ya if you took his offer."
Settling in, he plants his elbows onto either side of the door, allowing him to spread out haphazardly in the back. With the small of his spine planted into a tight corner, the Sin tips his head towards the window. Immediately, the ice across the glass begins to drearily melt - his threat of heat, cooking it to trickles. Greed reaches into his vest. "Though, think that was taking it a bit far, huh? Don't tell me you're letting those emotions of yours take control, Mur," he purrs, chidingly. It's all a part of this whole thing they have. A little give, a little teasing, and plenty, oh plenty, of take, take, take.
The Sin strikes a match across the door's top trim, causing the tip of it to huff to a flame. For a second or two, he just watches it; the flick of fire, playing dim reflections in his shades. Finally though, he coaxes it to the end of a fresh cigarette and as the black paper peels away, it's gold that answers. Gold, rich and toxic.
He presses the crank down with his elbow to toss the match out the window. "Y'know, there'll be more of them once we get there. Don't think that little trick of yours is going to work." He shifts, arching his shoulders into the frame of his tight nook. "And Envy, ah well. I'm pretty sure they already have a good idea we're coming."
A thread of smoke tangles out of his nose, and the Sin's lips peel back. The warmth of the tobacco pillows behind his teeth. It sags on his tongue like a thunderhead - the thickness of it, solid. Heavy. Greed sighs, and a sheet of smog scrapes over his grin. "Think you can keep our friend here occupied while I say hello? Then, feel free to do whatever you want." Slurring, the Sin twists his wrist. Violence isn't his go-to, not usually. But this is a bit personal, isn't it? And given the angel's current temperament, well.
They tried not to make it messy from the start, didn't they?
Indeed, Murmur was ever slow to anger. Even in acts of violence, there was an unnerving disconnect between the action and his countenance. Calculating and brutal, he destroyed with efficiency, not passion. It was a mistake, however, to assume he was beyond emotion. The glacial angel moved through existence with measured purpose, the outer facade unchanging, belying that which lay buried deep within. When a crack formed, it festered, it worked and spread until finally...
A break. Then everything came falling down.
While utterly devastating and furious, one could battle a wildfire. An avalanche one simply had to hope to survive.
The man, now commanded to silence in such a way he had no hope of regaining his tongue until Murmur relented, merely shot Greed an irritated look, before glancing more nervously toward the chilly angel who was watching him pointedly out of the corner of his eye. Facing forward, stock still, eyes tracking his every move. It was terrifying, frankly. He'd always thought angels were supposed to be the good ones.
While Murmur didn't react immediately to Greed's chiding, the chill in the car did sharpen, but for a moment. A threat of winter's deepest chill, where even the hottest fire struggled to produce warmth. Rather than take his bite to Greed at the moment, he focused his attention on their unwilling driver.
"He knew the cost when he sold his soul. The window for buyer's remorse... has passed."
The man winced slightly, scowling but not daring meet the angel's narrowed eyes. Finally Murmur turned away, focusing his attention on the road before them. How long this trip was taking already irritated him. Most of the time he could be patient, but much like that tumbling building snow from a mountainside, now that he was angry he wasn't going to calm down until the situation had been resolved.
Permanently.
"The humans and their toys do not concern me," Murmur quipped, switching his attention to the sky above them. Behind them, a storm raged, chasing their wake with all of heaven's fury. Finally Murmur turned to level that icy venom-green gaze of his upon the sin. Generally, he didn't make direct eye contact, always looking just a little off to the middle distance past whoever he was talking to. When he focused, well... the object of his focus would understand why immediately. It didn't feel like one pair of eyes, or even two, but came with the sensation of being stared down and peeled apart under the scrutiny of countless eyes. This was the sensation Greed would experience now, under Murmur's pitiless stare.
"Do you presume I will be waiting in the car for you?"
His voice was calm, the thunder roiling overhead was not.
➥ Mafia AU | The World Is Your Damn Oyster (CW: Blood, Gore, 18+, There's Probably More Here)
[ When it comes to moving cash safely and effectively, there are very few as proficient as him. Not only is he accustomed to pressure and multitasking but he is also dogged when it comes to completing these tasks.
Which is why, complete with the threads to make him look the part, he saunters through the crowd with a briefcase in tow. Unlike what one might see in a movie there are no supersized bodyguards flanking him or an ornate golden chain connecting the case to his wrist. Why? Because they know better than to test him.
The last time someone got Greedy he broke their hand, apologized, and even had the wherewithal to take them to get their hand treated after. Michael abhors violence, choosing only to use it when absolutely necessary and even then, he tends to take it easy on those weaker than him. Is that an award winning combination for someone affiliated with the mob?
Not unless your nickname happens to be The Angel — not just for his kindness. He can also just as easily send a man to an early grave if they choose not to relent when he gives them a choice. A few take his grace and even thank him for it but there have been several who chose to fight. Whether they still roam these streets or not, he really wouldn’t know.
Eventually, amidst getting lost in his thoughts, he finds himself at his destination: The Devil’s Nest. He can smell it before he even sets foot inside, the remnants of tobacco, alcohol and the familiar scent of bodies likely tangled in intimate embraces. But he isn’t here to watch the show, he is here to deliver the case to the owner of this decadent little house of sin — a tithe, from the smaller fish that share the pond.
And he spots him, it would be difficult not to. The timber of his voice, the way everyone seems to gravitate to him by the bar as if waiting for the show to begin. In this world, information is key and no one has more of it than Greed. Michael doesn’t have to call him, he simply waits for the man to feel his eyes on him and turns to walk into the back room with the case in tow.
This may be Greed’s place but he isn’t about to trust a roomful of strangers to abide by the rules of the house. Once there, he sets the briefcase on the table, opens it, and leans back against the table to peer through his sunglasses at the door, waiting.
Truthfully, the case isn’t the only reason he is here. When he hears footsteps, he murmurs the next words out. Jealousy has no place here, not with them, he looks more amused than anything else. ]
You kept me waiting, though I see you were busy. As usual. It’s all here, I counted it twice. They were appreciative and hope to continue doing business with you in the future.
[Names. They have a meaning, don't they? A means of ownership, of individuality, of identity. He's had plenty in his time, none of which are his real one. No, that was wiped away years ago. And where there's a mystery, there will always be rumors: something about a ship sinking off the coast decades prior, a story of a warehouse conveniently burning down under more questionable circumstances. None of them are right, of course. But that's the thing - people will always fill in their questions with answers of their own. And his?]
[Ah well, have they always counted on it.]
[If he were a different man, he might have thanked them. But he isn't, and he never will be. He left them for a reason, after all. Maybe that's why he chose this spot in the first place. What had once been a thriving industrial district, the city's Southside has now become a cesspool of sorts. Boarded-up buildings stand empty on the street and the few businesses that have stuck around have either closed down for the night or are just starting to open up again; their rolled-tin shutters, whining and skipping to the tune of thick, rust-caked chains.]
[No one goes to the Southside unless they have a reason to go to the Southside. And usually? It's a single destination they have in mind.]
[A sliver of light cuts across the bar, and Greed slowly lifts his head. Two women flank either side of him. They tangle themselves over his shoulders and torso, loose and unbothered; their wandering hands only pausing once they realize just who has come walking through the doors. Michael may not be a regular, but he has a reputation. And considering what he's brought with him? It wouldn't take too much stretching of the imagination to guess why he's here.]
[Greed slides a wedge of lime across the lip of a drink before anchoring it on the edge of the glass. No, they all know exactly where Michael is going and as he disappears into the back room, the man named Sin mouths something against the jaw of the woman to his right; his smile, teased in threads of smoke.]
[By the time he makes his way out back, what's left of his previous company are trinkets. A thin touch of lipstick stains the side of his neck peeking from the fur collar of his jacket, and a hint of perfume halos all around him. The smell, a mix of him, them, and the constant, heavy afterburn of cheap tobacco. Greed nudges the door closed with the back of his heel, letting it shut silently behind him. This deep inside, the noise from the bar is muddled at best. A few conversations blur behind the walls and as a roar of laughter rattles out front, he casually slips away from the door - his pace, unhurried and lax.]
Oh? Did I now? Suppose I owe you for the trouble then, don't I. [Greed's eyes chase away from the case to slide up Michael's arm. He follows each and every part of him: the way his suit unassumingly snugs his shoulders, how his vest cuts into him, shaping out the raw muscle underneath. It'd be easy for someone to take the man for a simple target. But that would be a mistake. A deadly, costly mistake, and one that he knows all too well.]
[Nothing, no nothing, is ever what it seems.]
[Greed leans forward to thumb a stack of cash. He lets the bills fan over his nail - their peel more similar to a deck of shuffled-slow cards. He clicks his tongue behind the backs of his teeth with an appreciative snap.] Always have to make sure everything's in order. Ha - ! I'm not surprised. You never could leave anything to chance, even if there's no point.
As for our friends - [He drops the stack back onto the pile.] - you can let them know that our deal still stands. Long as they keep holding up their end of the bargain.
[He turns, then; the money all but forgotten. In the end, it's simply another payment. Another transaction, another equivalent exchange. No, what he has his sights set on is worth so much more. And as he settles one of his heels next to Michael's, Greed leans forward. He eats up the space between them with nothing more than a smile; the points of his teeth, daggered and slick. He hovers one of his fingers close to Michael's tie and his eyes drop to his throat.]
[He pulls away at the last second, letting the point of his knuckle smooth down the soft, silky fabric.] Now, since I kept you waiting and all, think it's only right I make it up to you. [Greed's eyes tick upward, meeting his reflection in the other man's shades.] So, what do you have in mind, Blues?
[ Prejudice isn’t what makes him frown every time he walks in here, it is the clientele and their inability to try to behave. Michael has a code, he always has, and those who don’t follow it are left behind. Sometimes violence is necessary, he knows that better than anyone, but the constant barrage of violence brought on by simple slights and a wrongly perceived glance is disgusting. It reminds him of the behavior of a fussy child who has their favorite toy confiscated.
He comes here for one reason and one reason alone, the Sin who currently graces him with his presence. In another world? They probably would have been enemies but something about this charismatic asshole lured him in like a moth to a flame. Sometimes he thinks about doing the world a favor and smothering him with a pillow but therein lies the rub — Greed just won’t die. ]
You are always trouble, Greed. If I collected every time there was an inconvenience, you would never get anything done around here. [ His shades hide the amusement dancing in his eyes but the exasperation is palpable in the air. Sometimes he wonders why he keeps this up. ]
Leaving things to chance is precisely why your competition is struggling. It’s better to act, their movements are predictable enough to counter. It often makes me wonder whether they are doing this for sport rather than financial gain, though they lack the conviction to succeed in either.
Your friends. [ The correction is soft but swift. ] If it were up to me, there wouldn’t be a deal in place. I’d say I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them, but we both know I have quite an arm. And I’ve never missed a target.
[ A handkerchief is plucked from his back pocket so he can reach up and scrub away the lipstick on his neck. The color is wrong, offensively gaudy and clashes with his image, it has nothing to do with jealousy. The lingering stench of the cheap perfume is the only offensive thing to him in this room. ]
While you’re still caked in the aftermath of your prizes for the evening? You’re bold, aren’t you? A drink will suffice, I won’t keep you long. If you look at me any more intensely, you will bore a hole through me. [ A pause, then he leaves him with an appropriate quote for the occasion. He sees those eyes. ] Not all that tempts your wandering eyes and heedless hearts, is lawful prize; nor all that glisters gold.
[ Rather than wait, he pointedly slides around the former homunculus to grab it himself. He knows where everything is kept, he always has, he is usually just polite about waiting until offered. He is tired, the job is done and now it is time to hang up his wings for a little while. As much as he prides himself on an immaculate appearance, removing his tie some days is liberating. ]
Do you want one?
[ Michael lowers his shades, casually beginning to loosen his tie. And if he happens to throw a certain look over his shoulder, pay it no heed. Clearly he is trying to get a bit more comfortable. Or he is simply forcing Greed to work for his supper tonight out of spite.
Probably the latter. He really does dislike dealing with his new friends and punctuality is gospel. ]
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➥ AU | The Sins Come to Party | IF THIS DOESN'T WORK NO WORRIES
[♬ - Fia by Corpo Mente]
Nothing quite sells power like a ball and no one does it quite like the Empire, especially when the occasion's all about catering to the most esteemed and noble of them all. No expense has been spared; no corner untouched. Fountains run crystal-clear water under lights of gold and towers of marble so high, the display itself seems both a challenge to creation and a dare for anyone, any thing, to test their might.
No one could deny the statement.
A pyramid of fine glass sermons at the center room surrounded by bottles in an ever-winding circle of tastes: rosé, champaign, chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, pinot noir. No, nothing has been spared and why not? Even the stage is decorated, the red-wine silks hanging about it like the flow of a thousand, waiting dresses.
It is a proclamation. A production. A show.
Escaping the Empire is a futile effort.
But them, oh them. They weren't from here, nor did they follow mortal rules. By all accounts, they were the other. Something wicked and cruel born from the absence of everything and left only to want more. And now that they're here?
All there is to do is take. At least, somewhat.
Greed watches Lust out of the corner of his eye, the deep panes of his sunglasses reflecting the wealth about him in all its splendor. An hour or so before, they had just finished a dance routine that would have made even the most devote blush. Reconnaissance may be the name of the game tonight (among other things), but having a little bit of fun on the side wasn't against the rules. The unintended effect just added a bit of a bonus.
And while Lust, or as she is currently known as, Lady Dominique Razzka of the esteemed Razzka Family made political talks and arms deals with men who craved conquest, Greed took to more feminine company. Empire women, especially military wives, were a good source of information. Rumors, tactics, battle arrangements - women really held them all and more. The true generals with painted smiles and cat-groomed claws.
"She's beautiful, your wife," a woman at the corner of his ear purrs, breaking the silence. "Though, she's just as lucky to have a man like you." The lady's ruby-red nails bite into the leather of his long, fur-collared coat, making it groan.
Greed's lip crests upwards. "I guess you could say that. Though, it's more of a family arrangement." Which isn't a lie, per say. More of a twist on words. The Sin tilts his neck, letting one of his longer earrings graze the woman's skin with a purposeful tease. "Enough about us though, lovely. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?" The hand on his coat trembles while he whispers sweet viciousness into the crook of her neck. If nothing else, he was made for this; to mingle among mortals, to pull their deepest desires out and play them string for string like a fiddle. It was almost too easy. Little did they know what actually lurked behind, lurked deep, in his all-too-sure smile.
He, she, all of them: they were monsters. Demons. Hell-spawn sent only to destroy and swindle whatever they could.
"Me, sir? Oh, I am but a housewife. The commander over there is my husband." She lowers her voice, reaching up underneath his coat to touch his chest while the room's preoccupied. "He's a terrible brute. Not one for romance at all. Makes a woman desperate." The scritch of her sharp fingers force the fabric of his layered suit to a skip.
"Does it now." Greed's smile is daggers and heathenism. "That's a shame, love. Maybe there's something I can do."
A change in music alerts them both and the woman quickly pulls away to compose herself. The tune in question calls for a slow waltz; a melody for two.
"The brute calls for me, Lord Razzka. Can I - ?"
Greed's eyebrows knot together, his teeth disappearing in single, sly line. "Of course. Can't keep the lug waiting, can you?" He tosses his fingers to wave her off. "After."
The woman curtsies and as she leaves, the Sin turns his attention back to his partner in crime. Lust has a man snagged in her clutches for the next dance; a bureaucratic hierarchy type from the looks of him.
Greed almost feels sorry for the poor bastard. But so be it. He has his own pleasure to deal with and when a server comes around, he beckons the man over with a curl of two fingers.
"Ah, Lord. No encore performance?"
"No, not yet. Maybe if I find the right partner." He sizes up the server, legs spread and arms wide like a shark on land looking for a snack. The man's face wrinkles and his spine goes suddenly sharp, as if something foul's washed over him. "I - uh. Right. Can I get you - ?"
"The forty age on the rocks. Make sure it's poured high, will you?" Greed hums. "Thanks."
The server doesn't even bother sticking around. He makes a beeline to the back. Greed follows him on his exit, all the while scanning for the next opportunity.
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Solus zos Galvus.
The man himself pauses on the threshold, surveying the room as an eagle might survey its domain: with a cold eye and tilted chin. Though his stature is slightly less than those gathered, no-one with any respect for their own life would dare point it out - for this is the man responsible for the Empire's success. Its influence. Its might. At a mere thirty-five years of age, Solus zos Galvus has not only cemented and consolidated the Empire's rule but also installed himself as its first ever emperor.
The imperial regalia he wears clinks quietly as he strides down the centre of the room. The crowd parts to murmurs of 'Your Radiance', salutes, and curtsies. As zos Galvus passes Greed and his kin, his gaze shifts briefly towards them and he holds their gaze for the briefest of moments. Something in that instant seems to pass between them. Some manner of recognition of other.
--But it's gone in the next second as he strides past and ascends to a balcony with an unrestricted view of the stage. Once he is seated, he waves a hand.
Let the revelry continue.
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A shrewd smile passes over his lips, faint and sharp.
The guest of the fucking hour had finally arrived.
Greed shrugs to himself and as he presses the flats of his hands across the front of his suit, he gingerly rises out of his seat. The recognition doesn't surprise him much. They're all out of this picture in some way or another, aren't they? Above it all, watching time and its patrons scurry to the next oblivion. It's always the same, even if the backdrop switches out every now and again. There's always a crowd, always a civilization, always men and women clambering to impress the top.
The Sin weaves through the crowd with a sense of purpose. He spins on his heel one way, tips the other, and while his movements remain fluid, his fingers keep busy. They snag small trinkets: a couple of coins to line his pockets and a note or two of personal scandal. No doubt nothing that would even mildly intrigue his intended guest, but things he would appreciate later.
It's only when a guard gets in his way, does the procession top.
"Sir, you aren't allowed here."
"No?" Greed hums. "Ah, I must have been mistaken, then. This isn't the way to the courtyard?"
"No, it isn't. I'm going to have to ask you to step aside, sir." The guard's hand shoots up; a clear signal that any step further will have drastic consequences.
The Sin's mouth cracks. A moon's crescent sliver in the shape of harmful daggers. "You'll have to excuse me then, friend. Meant no harm." He puts a slur to his words. Not entirely a lie, but not entirely a truth either. He had been drinking; it would be all too easy to assume he was just another overindulgent guess. And that? Well, there was some truth to that, wasn't there?
The guard's audible sigh says he's right on the money. "Sir, you've had a lot to drink tonight. Please, return to your seat."
"Of course," Greed leers forward and his knuckles spread out across the center of his chest. A mocking imitation of cordialness. "But before I do, could you do me one favor?" He comes in close, too near that some might take it for affection. And maybe, the guard does. After all, what sort of party doesn't come with a few who've had a bit too many? It's par for the course. Expected.
The Sin wraps his hand around the back of the guard's neck, coy and delicate. And as his index raises between the point of the man's bones, he cranes his head, allowing his nose to almost touch the other's in a single moment of intimacy.
"What is it you really want?"
"What - ?"
Greed's lips shrink, puckering, and his shades slowly slide down. "I asked you - " The color of his eyes shift, like the tail of a red fish fleeing to the deep. "-what do you really want?" The Sin's nail trembles to a point and pricks into the man's skin. A needle, unknowing and faint.
"What I ..." The guard's words drop off. "-I want to go home. I hate this job. I just want to the tavern and spend the night with Veronica."
"Then why don't you? Don't worry, it'll be our secret, hmn? I'll make sure you don't get into too much trouble. Besides, you only have this one life, don't you? Why not have it all." Greed lifts his hand away and the point of his nail trembles to nothing, leaving behind normal flesh and blood. "Go ahead and take it. I've got things from here." Like a snake releasing a dearly departed meal, the Sin unravels and the guard stumbles away. His motion, his whole self, as dazed as a man wandering through a dream.
A tug as his jacket and the Sin straightens himself. He takes the stairs deliberately. Counting each step, feeling the press of wood against his heels as they click and clap his ascension. It's almost too easy. Too simple.
And by his sheer expression, he absolutely cannot wait to see what the rest of the night will bring.
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The party is a social obligation and not one he had been particularly enthusiastic to attend. He cares nothing for the gossip, the politicking (although he is very good at it) or even the pleasure of more tangible company. Indeed, he is above it all, like a god watching from on high...
In a way that is exactly what he is, although those below are ignorant of the fact.
Solus zos Galvus doesn't appear to have noticed the disturbance at the bottom of the stairs. Or if he has, there isn't a single hint of fear or trepidation in the sharp, narrow gaze he shoots at the interloper who ascends them. He is wary of course - anyone with as much power and influence as he wields must be the source of at least one assassination plot a day - but for now, he remains seated, elbow propped on the arm of his chair and chin resting upon the back of his hand. This man is either arrogant or supremely confident in his own safety.
"What did you do to the guard?" he asks harshly.
The emperor is alone, it seems.
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Greed's smile breaks it all in a single moment. A rock at the proverbial house of glass. "Solus zos Galvus," he says, snapping his tongue like a child with a large wad of bubblegum. He savors the depth of the name, the wealth. How rich a man is, simply by title alone.
The Sin innocently touches his chest and his expression softens to a low boil. "Me? No, nothing much. I just let him see what he really wanted out of life." He climbs one more step, making his way beyond the crowd with a bow in his back and sarcasm written on every inch of his crooked face. "Everyone wants something, Solus. Don't tell me you don't. After all, I've heard you're an honest man - that's something we have in common."
Greed sags his head and his fingers curl up across his face. They spread like the legs of a spider testing a web; gentle, tentative, and deadly. A blink of color betrays him though and as his eyes sink back behind his sunglasses, deep and soulless, his mouth shrinks to a squeezing pucker.
"But you're not really concerned about him are you? Just about what I did. I can show you, if that's what you want." He forms his spine into the banister, allowing his body to lean and sprawl as it pleased. In the reflection of his sunglasses, the crowd below has already returned to business as usual. People laugh, ladies clutch their chests and fan their faces with the juiciest of news. Greed reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single coil to dribble over his knuckles.
"All I need is your permission." His hand tips and dives only to snap to a still, leaving the coin pinched perilously between his index and thumb. "Nothing too hard, but you have to be sure. Don't worry - no one else will even notice."
The coin in his hand begins to change as he talks. The silver washes away as sure as tide to the shore and while the cool edges peel back, it's gold that replaces it. Glittering, shining; a capture of sunlight at the tips of his fingers.
Greed snaps it off is thumb, letting it tumble to the ground below.
"Now, it's just you and me." He uncrosses his ankles and stretches out his legs as far as he possibly can. "Whatever you want." He repeats. The Sin's hands wrap around the banister and he shoves himself forward. "Or you could just say no, continue to brood up here, and that'll be it. But where would be the fun in that?" His eyebrow creases his forehead and his smile cooks on his chin. A devil with a mouth sweet enough to savor, but fatal to swallow. "Then again, I could just go ahead and skip all the formalities. But that wouldn't be too pleasant for either of us."
He's close again. Too close for comfort, too close for respect. Greed pulls his sunglasses off his heavy, closed eyes. He clips them to the collar of his coat a second later and his fingers waver. As if holding onto the moment, stretching it, like the last touch before a long send off.
When he opens his eyes and stares up at the man (no, beyond that isn't he?), the slits of his eyes have all but shrunk. No longer are they larger and swallowing, no. Instead, they quiver - needles shaking, desperate and excitable for an answer.
The Sin extends his hand at a distance. "What do you say?"
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That said, he's not worried. It would be terribly inconvenient if 'Solus' were to die here however, after such painstaking efforts to raise him to the seat of emperor. Bright, crimson lines spiral down his left arm and a mark of the same colour flashes before his face. Bright like a neon warning for predators: 'Do not eat'.
"There is only one power in this world that can give me what I desire, and it's not you," he hisses. "Find some other, more gullible prey."
After all, he has no proof, no guarantee about what this man (or thing) can do. He has lost too much and worked too long to bet it all on such easy temptation. No, he will need a more tangible guarantee than empty promises before he even begins to consider bending his ironclad principles.
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He forgets to breathe, not that it matters. He isn't really living anyway. Not like most.
Greed's teeth chatter and tremble together as if his gums are trying to desperately keep them in place. "Ha - !" He barks. "HA-! Now, who would have fucking thought? You're just full of surprises!" The Sin toes backwards, his heels and the tips of his boots making him retreat, albeit slightly. Emet's threat meets his offer in a union of violence. They stand together, predator to predator, the answer of who could come out on top hanging by a delicate thread.
He wans to know. Needs to know. His core demands it.
Greed pauses and as his shoulders relax, he picks his sunglasses out from his collar. A flick of his wrist opens them again. "Gullible? No, I don't think that about you at all. Judge me all you want Solus, but don't take me for something I'm not."
Exasperation takes hold of him as he fastens his sunglasses back over his face. "It isn't surprising. Most people do deny me at first. But then again, you aren't most, are you?" He presses his fingers up to shove his shades over his eyes while his nails twitch and threaten to leave gauges in the glass. "But what you are - oh, what you are. You're truly something."
The Sin hums wistfully. The way he pointedly avoids looking Solus dead in the eye, the way his mind and attention wanders. He watches nothing and everything all at once. As if a world beyond stretched out in front of him, out of focus and dim to everyone else. "No, I'm not the one you're looking for. I rarely am. But that's always how I end up here. Well, sort of."
How he ended up existing is a more appropriate answer.
Greed's mouth softens and while his neck falls sluggish on the weight of his bones, he raises both of his arms above his end. A signal of surrender, if only in gesture alone. "Your choice, then. You could kill me if you wanted, though I think you already know that'll be a waste of time." He lowers his hands and a feathery dark, not unlike a waft of smoke, frees itself from his arms. It twirls around his wrist before shrinking into the floor below; a toxic heave of smoke disappearing back to the depths.
"We got off on the wrong foot," Greed tongues his cheek. He can taste it in the air; a strength, a source, driving him wild. "You said there's only one person that can show you what you really desire. I don't think you're lying about that. But has it happened yet?" He pauses to run his thumb up the center of his throat. "Or are you still waiting? All I'm offering is a moment. Real, fake, whatever it is - and after, you can do whatever you want. Like I said, killing me might not do much, but if that's your choice - "
Finally, he turns back to Solus, the heaviness on his eyes blatant and stark. There's age in his face that shows not in wrinkles, but in experience. Where years aren't measured in time but by the points of tragedies encountered along the way.
Greed lifts his thumb away from his throat and a sizzle of electricity evaporates off his skin. "Some want fame, others want wealth. But do you know what I find people really want the most?" He mouth goes neutral. "They just want to see a loved one again, or a home they've left behind. The way I see it, greed is no different than hope. What's noble, what's taboo - to me, it's all the same. And is that such a bad thing? Is having too much hope really such a problem?"
The Sin turns away and his weight shifts to favor his left. "Ehh, guess that's a lot of me to ask, isn't it? I haven't even introduced myself yet." Though, he had a feeling Solus (if that was what he was really called), could have easily figured it out by now. He didn't take things at face value. He didn't leave things to chance.
Greed's teeth peer out from his mouth, raw and sharp.
Thankfully, he was a more betting man.
no subject
They want an in. They want a crack in the armour so they can slip through. Well, they won't have it. Twelve thousand years he has laboured for their people. He isn't about to surrender all that work to some creature of the void and their honeyed words.
"Killing you here would raise questions, but not so many that I am unprepared to answer. Get yourself gone before I change my mind," he says gruffly, turning his hard gaze back to the gathering below. He had been prepared to enjoy the performance but...well, now his mood has soured.
no subject
Greed's teeth grind together so hard they almost crack and spark with the pressure. It's in his nature. He's the scab that never quite heals, the itch that never gets a scratch. And oh, does he love every last second of it.
The Sin's face screws over, tightens, and snaps to finally show his frenzy pure and raw. He simmers. "Get gone?" He tastes his own lips and gingerly pulls them into his mouth; his expression as blissful as someone sampling a fine meal. "As you wish, your highness." The end of his sentence extends and the S(s) draw out to a snake's empty lullaby.
And that's where it changes. The mask slips. The pretense tumbles. A curtain call of a completely different kind.
Greed's tongue rolls out of his mouth, lithely stretching to form a fiery, split-down whip. His transformation is both painfully slow and deliriously fast. Fine dust breaks from his skin in a condensed, black funnel only to spin as it thickens and churns like a whirlpool on a dark night. Greed spreads his arms to his sides and the tails of his coat evaporate; their torn remains spooling out to disintegrating threads.
And he laughs. Oh, how he laughs. His baritone boxes the ceiling and batters the walls with the force of an explosion. Even as he disappears into the swirling swill of his own making, his joy, his hysteria, thunders and claps. No storm could hold candle to it. No tempest could even try.
The Sin's smile breaks through the ash, now twisted and jagged. Where sharp teeth had been before, elongated daggers now take their place, and the pricks of his eyes burn like coals through the mist. A show of his fire, true and plain. "Ha .. AH HA HA HA HA! Who would have ever thought!? You really are something special, Emperor!"
Waves of inky black roll out of his mouth, spilling into his ever-expanding presence. He's everywhere and nowhere all at once. Wisps of himself crawl across the floor, wrap around the banister, and choke them out. Greed purses what's left of his jaw in the mayhem - his expression both tender and unstable. A creature eating itself alive.
When he speaks again, his voice is hollow. Tinny. A can's echo. "I really do admire that about you. Maybe one day, we could be good friends." Holes break through his face, his hair, his throat and the light behind them dims. All the while, another cough of smoke drops out of his jaws and vomits over his feet, swallowing them whole.
Greed tries to breathe this time, but it's too late. He's already crossed the threshold. "I hope you'll think of me differently after this." From the looks of it, he's having difficulty moving. He stretches his arm out with a strain - his fingers almost locked in a tense, clawing grip. He reaches to grab a hold of anything he possibly can. But at the mercy of the whirlwind, he's no match.
Not that it matters. He's right where he wants to be.
His fingers fall apart, break into pieces, and the boney tips sputter off short spirts of electricity. Zzt. Ztt. Ztt. Greed gasps in his own suffocation; the last of the ash in his gut finally filling his nose and mouth to stifle out his laughter.
He's gone a second later, replaced by the sounds of merriment and amusement below. Light creases off glass and party goers alike; a soft melody plays distantly up the staircase. It's silent. Quiet.
It's the pressure that shatters it. The sensation comes from all sides; above, below, inside, and out. Noise amplifies only to splinter under the terrible sensation of buzzing. Like an eardrum blown out by cannon fire.
"You're going to be like that, aren't you. You won't give up and you won't give in until every part of you is suffering. I did tell you - it wasn't going to be pleasant for either of us." Greed's voice is an annoying whisper through it all. His tone hisses above the static, stinging and biting where it can. "It's a shame, your majesty. This could have been so much easier." The Sin exhales, forcing his voice over unseen teeth as prickly as nails grinding down a chalkboard.
Getting to this point was one thing, and he's unsure of the outcome. But he can only imagine the fight on the horizon. After all, possessing an unwilling host is always a challenge. And here? Well.
Here he is fighting the emperor of them all.
no subject
What manner of voidsent are they? Something strong - far stronger than any of them could have foreseen.
"You won't have me," he whispers. The red mark flares before his face. Not for the first time, he wishes it did not limit the power the seat of Emet-Selch can wield. Such ancient magic, however, is not his to undo. "Not in a thousand years. You don't know me, nor the sacrifices I've made to make it here, you shallow creature. You thirst for something you will never truly have."
I know because I, too, have been tainted by Darkness.
Lifting a hand, he gathers his power. More power than even the best mage of this realm can ever bring to bear. So much so that he thinks even those below can surely sense something amiss.
no subject
He's never tasted anything like this; never felt anything better. And while he basks in everything this man is, distracted and drunk, pieces of him creep into the gaps between. Moments of who he is, what he is, casting themselves in hisses of static.
Greed sucks in a breath and where he once stood, the faintest hint of a thunderhead pulses silently to life. Whatever grip he has on the patrons below holds, though tentatively so. There's a feeling of something for some of the more attuned few - a glance here, a pause or break in conversation there. The sensation for others is alert; as if someone had briefly sauntered over their grave to kick away the dust. It's a feeling of ill will in the air. A presence of everything evil and rotten crawling to meet each other in dissonant harmony.
Flooding forward with all the force he can muster, the Sin concentrates himself. He tries to bite at Emet's defenses and rip them apart by will and laughter alone. "You're finally understanding. I want it all. Everything you have, everything you've ever wanted. But don't get the wrong idea," Greed's tongue lashes invisible teeth. "-as much as I'd want to, there are limits. I may be bad, but even I have some standards, friend."
The air in the room turns up a notch, then another and another. It's warm in the way a jungle is warm; hot in the way a desert scorches the earth. The Sin makes a noise like lips touching together ever-so-softly. "I can cut you out of this. Remove you from this one moment and give you a taste of it all. A second to be blissfully away from all this bullshit. You just have to give me your hands."
Another flash of violence wriggles into vision. The place isn't here - it's far away. Darkness squirms and infects all it touches. No where is safe from it; not the rocks, not the trees, nor the empty shells of buildings that had once stood as a testament to humanity and mortality, now incubators for creatures starved of the sun. Yet above all the devastation, it is them that linger. Faces made prominent in vague shadows and menacing shapes. Seven of them total stand tall. Towering giants twisted and clawing like the Titans over the destruction of Olympus.
Greed hums from somewhere behind and his arms stretch out, shadowy and intangible. Four of them try to wrap around Emet loosely; their forming fingers turning sharp and crooked. "I'm sure you hear it often. All those people down there singing your praises. If only they knew. If only they realized how special you truly are." The Sin sighs, his exhale catching each edge of him, every barb, in a thin whistle. "You're so much more. Oh, Your Highness, you're just too, too, much - "
His jaws close in, but the pressure radiating off his target is too much to bare. Greed snaps his mouth shut, sudden and brisk. Something has broken. Maybe him from too much energy. Maybe his spell from being stretched too thin. The air in front of them cracks, forming a hairline split like thin ice spiderwebbing underfoot. The Sin's arms retreat to the tune of a thousand snakes and in his chest, a noise stirs; a sound of a purr and a growl storming in delight.
"Just so you know that I'm telling the truth. The name's Greed, not Envy. I make it a point not to lie. But if that's not enough to convince you - " Greed's attention changes direction; a predator seeking out an alternative meal. "I could find someone else if that's what you want. I'm sure you won't have an issue with that, hmn?" A hint of confidence nips back into his jaw.
"Otherwise, we're just going to be doing this all night long. And I don't think either of us want that, do we?"
no subject
He casts his gaze out over the people below. Solus' people. Not his. Their pride is not his own. Their dreams and aspirations far removed from those of his long-dead people. His aging frame seems to sag under its own weight (or perhaps just the weight of his heavy heart) but his defences remain firm. His conviction is not so easily broken. Why should he care where this creature wishes to feast?
But they're right that they cannot continue this all night, and if he lets them loose in the city then his carefully laid plans may crumble.
"A moment of bliss for, what, my soul?" he asks, his chuckle more a dry cough than anything. Frustrating how these mortal bodies break down after two-score years. Solus is verging on half a century now but he can hear the creak in his joints, the wearing down of cartilage, and sense the slow decline of his own organs. "You will have to bargain better than that. Why should I settle for a moment when I can have an eternity?"
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The Sin almost misses the question. "Your soul? Ha - ! No - " A static shock arcs out of the air, spitting and hissing like a snake electrified in a terrible, wicked red. "-if I wanted that, we wouldn't be talking right now. Besides - ah," his voice dies in his throat. Under all that pressure, under all of Solus's sheer mass, he feels like he's falling. Like he's coming apart, tearing himself open, and bleeding out everything and all he's ever been.
A jagged smile etches in the air and stretches out - the edges of it reaching like nails searching for a wall to scratch on.
"An eternity," Greed finally answers, breathless. There's a sense of a grin in his tone; a tickle of malice pure, raw, and unabashedly wanton. "You're just as greedy as I am, aren't you?" Another tremble of dust vibrates around the banister. It lifts off the wood with a mind of its own; like the aftermath of a deafening rocket shaking the earth from its slumber. "I like the sound of that."
And hasn't that always been the catch? Eternity without the concerns of their own rules, without worrying about him, without all the strings that came attached.
Greed's focus suddenly snaps, his red eyes briefly reforming as pricks in the dim. "I told you that we couldn't do this all night. I wasn't lying, friend." When he speaks, his voice seems far more distant. It's a whisper - a hiss from a violin's string or a hum from a clinking glass. No, he can't do this much longer. Shedding his form had been a risk he was willing to take, but going back? Now? When it's all so, so close -
A member of the waitstaff passes below, unaware and oblivious of what's watching him. Greed gathers himself. "It's either you or that one down there," he slurs. "-then you can decide for yourself."
But he isn't wasting time. A ribbon of ash slithers down the steps, twisting and turning like a thick band of wire seeking out a power source. "It's always been your choice. So, what'll it be?" The soot pauses, rises up, and puffs out; a cobra seconds from a strike.
no subject
"You think I care about these people? I would curse the gods if this empire fell tonight but you can have that one if you wish." The men and women here - they are expendable. The loss of one (if indeed this creature intends to take them over) is a mere pebble in the way of his grander scheme. The problem is what they do with them...
"Mark my words: I'll not suffer you to undermine all that I've built thus far," he growls. "I don't know what you are, nor do I care - stay out of my way and out of my plans else your greed will forever go unsatisfied."
no subject
Greed's body flashes once more and his alarming grin burns itself into the limelight; like that of a lightning strike outlining its crash. "You drive a hard bargain, chief. But fine, suit yourself. Hold that thought though -" Much like his voice, his presence drifts. Twirls of ash crawl down the steps with a purpose. They bounce and spiral low to the ground; their edging fingers tiptoeing closer, closer, closer -
The man never sees it coming. His preoccupation with the goings on (the many guests to tend to, his never-ending list of demands, his personal life) make him an easy target. He's halfway to his next destination, unknowing and carefree, when he suddenly stops. From the tips of his toes to the grip of his hand, every part of him appears to seize up. It's almost as if he's hit an invisible wall - one solid, foreboding, and thrown up endlessly to block his path. The server's eyes wander wildly in his sockets and as the drinks on his tray begin to sweat, his chest slowly expands; his breath all but catching in his throat.
"What do you want - ?" The Sin's voice whispers in. Like a squall trapped in a jar, his body thunders in and out of the physical; his existence now a fleeting, flickering thing. Greed guides one of his four arms to gently cup the man's face. "What do you really want - "
The nameless server studders. He doesn't speak (or he simply can't). Nevertheless, he watches what is about to swallow him with both fear and intense precision. Greed lowers his head. "You have to tell me. Whatever you want - " The devil turns his neck and as he puppets the man's skull to lean into his ear, an alarmingly kind smile touches on what's left of his lips. "Hmnn? You're going to have to speak up a little bit there, handsome."
A silent exchange passes between them. Instead of words, their conversation sparks in colors. Purple sizzles and murky blacks write out the silent contract: what is willingly given, what is willingly received. Greed's claws rake down the man's throat and the remnants of his half-smoking forehead press against the man's head. "-see, that wasn't so hard, huh? I just hope you have the stomach for it."
Seconds later, he's gone, and the waiter shakes his head like a man out of a dream. He looks to the left of him, the right, behind him, then begins to head back out to his work. However, his freedom doesn't last. He makes it to the banister of the stairs when the tray in his hand goes topside; its various flutes of rich-gold champaign clattering to the floor. The man eases down to his knees. Whatever grace and poise he may have had quietly goes out the window as his body fights itself. His fingers twitch, the veins in his forehead gorge and bloat beneath his skin. Yet, he makes not a sound. Not a whisper, not a scream, nor a sigh. He just clutches his head and as the bow of his spine contorts under his long-tailed jacket, his nails bitterly claw at his hair, freeing it from a loose tie string.
His fingernails dig, peeling themselves free and cracking. No, the promise, the deal he's been given - it comes with a price, doesn't it? And all debts need to be paid at some point.
The last of his nails rips open and the waiter's head hits the carpet with a dulled thud. When he inhales again, his voice isn't his own anymore. "Ahh -," Greed tongues at his new cheek, feeling it out. "I did ask if you had the stomach for it, kid. Guess not - "
The Sin grips his legs, righting himself to a stand. "You should probably sleep this one off. You'll get yours once I'm done." Similar to an insect in a cocoon, he tests his borrowed body - swaying his skull one way and the next, rolling his shoulders back to click and pop all the bones into place.
Greed brings his hand up to his face and turns to look back up at Solus. "Now, where were we? Oh - " He wiggles his fingers. The stubs of his lost nails are angry, raw, and thin bits of skin stingingly cling to the cuticles. The Sin examines them with a strange sort of fascination before his core kicks in and his red current licks them clean, leaving a fresh, manicured set. "-don't worry about it. I did tell you, didn't I? It takes a little more than that to hurt me. It's the same now for our friend here."
He lazily steps over a broken piece of glass. "I'm not here to get in your way, chief." Crunch goes the handle of a flute. "You've got me all wrong. But then again, I can't really blame you." He takes another step, his hands making quick work to adjust his collar and remove the thin tie at the dip of his throat. "Most do deny me at first, that's true."
He drops the fabric on the banister: another thing of his host, discarded. "See, I look at it this way: want is no different than hope. And you're hoping for something. Something most don't really understand. Did I get that right?" It's a wild guess of course. An idea vaguely spun together. Greed waves his arm and the long jacket whips at his feet. "You could say I want something similar. But nothing's impossible."
He pauses at the top of the stairs and when he opens his eyes, they're no longer a muted green, but a wicked sort of red. A reflection of his parasitic hold pushing outward. Greed slouches his shoulders. "It's stupid to be stubborn. What, do you think all of this is enough to satisfy me? I don't care what you've built, Solus."
The Sin tests his host's teeth. "Ehh, either way, now you know mine. If you want me gone, this one'll be back here tomorrow just the same as always. I've given him that time. But if not - " His arms wander as eccentric as an actor eating up the applause. "-well, I'm sure you can figure out how to find me, can't you?"
crawls back here after a million years
"Pitiful creature. You want what you cannot have, yet even when you have it you will never be satisfied." Solus disregards the fact that he could very well be talking about himself. "It will never be enough. Man is filled with unrelenting want and you - you are the purest form of it. Begone."
That's right, he must turn his eyes away from the temptation. He must stand strong, for the burden of a thousand, thousand people rests upon his shoulders. Like the sole remaining pillar of a ruin crumbling towards the sea.
But even stone is worn down by wind and time.
text / i feel like being stupid and you have to deal with it
found this
thing
can we keep it
( and what did he find, pray tell?
just this harmless-looking thing right here! )
➥ text | 1/2 oh fuck yeah
????
did u even have to ask ? whodo u think ur talkin to?
bring g it over
➥ text | 2/2
doors unlocked
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT NOT MIND 1 / idfk
i was trying that thing called respect
wont do that shit again
2 / WE JUST DON'T KNOW
it either likes dark places or has good taste cuz its not movin around too much
3 / 4
its tryin to crawl up my back
jesus fuck THE FUCKIN CLAWS ON THIS THING
4 / 4 done i swear
1 / ???
2 / 4
not v good at keeping still
3 / 4
looks like ur runnin into trouble friend. need me to get someone out to u to give you a hand ?
4 / 4
'doc says its a possum or a tasmanian devil
where'd u fid it?
1 / ??? HERE WE GO AGAIN
so eat me boss man
ALSO
2 / ??
with me sittin still
never got a complaint before
3 / 4
like a gd parrot
if this mfer starts talkin im out
4 / 4
( it was in a fucking garbage can, okay.
don't ask why he was in there. )
1 / 3
just in ur natur e right ?
2 / 3
theyre betting on how long it takes B4 u get a new piercing u didn't want
3 / 3
& no guess it doesnt
1 / maybe 3
troubles like my middle name
or something
( dante that is not something you should be proud of???? )
2 / 3
i could make friends if i wanted to yknow
its just a lot of effort
BUT A FUCKIN BET REALLY???
3 / 3
show all you assholes
headshot wouldnt do that to me anyway
we bonded
1 / ???
makes me thinku enjoy it. am I wrong?
2 / 4
3 / 4
[That's the fucking joke of a lifetime right there.]
4 / 4
[There's an attachment this time. And an unseen, all-too-obvious grin.]
almost thin k theres enough to pay off 1/3 of ur debt
1 / fuck me i guess
2 / ??
i enjoy a lot of things
dont have to put a name to all of em
but i swear
3 / 4
ohhhh shit i shouldnt have bet against him
now im broke
fuck my whole life
4 / 4
glad you like the name at least
it couldnt be some punkass shit
plus if you look really close theres like a little white spot near one of the ears
made sense
1 / 3
2 / 3
so far we're up to a good $1K
ah and someones brought out the chalkboard
3 / 3
no ? nois thought youd name it somethng like hold on
...
burnt toast
or emergency meal #1
➥ Closed to @ albatrossomen | devil trap remix
"Laid low, evading capture. A lifetime on the run.
Don't know the day when I last saw the sun."
The change of the next millennium had brought with it a renaissance of sorts; where technology reigned supreme and superstition had turned the corner towards more mainstream entertainment. No longer did the masses fear what lurked behind every corner. Science had given them the answers to their questions and explanations for whatever went bump in the night. It was an admirable and impressive half truth. A way to calm the herd and keep progress on the ever-chugging train track towards advanced civilization.
But not everyone was on board. And those that still held on, those that still knew, still believed, were the very reason he'd ended up here in the first place.
Greed watches one of the copper pipes hanging above him. He'd noticed the slight crack in it months before. How it rattled whenever the sink a few floors up switched from cold to hot; the way it groaned and whined whenever the weather took a turn for the worse. Today, it's a few healthy inches of rain giving it trouble and as the sliver of a window in the basement's upper corner films up, he catches the small crack bleeding out again. The steady trickle of water, a thunderclap in all his silence.
A tired smile teases on his face. He should have known better, really. Avarice - for him, it meant honesty. Everything he was, everything he is: it's clearly defined. What he wanted and craved, forever worn on his sleeve. Mortals, however, came with the complexities of their small moments on earth. And when one is faced with the idea of being lost for eternity? He can't blame them for being desperate. For deciding to fight, claw, beat, and escape from a cage of their own making, no matter what could be the cost.
The deal had turned a corner as soon as he was summoned. Usually, he knew when someone was going to give him a call. There'd be a hint, a visit, anything. This, however, came with more than a touch of desperation. The man had been frantic when he first arrived: sweaty skin, ringing hands, eyes bulged out like saucer plates on the bad end of a cocaine line. It was if, finally, he knew his end was coming and it was time to clean the ledger and get all that red, Lord all that red, out, out, out.
When the priest showed up, Greed had laughed. Really laughed. After all, what could an average holy man really do?
He hadn't anticipated the angel masquerading as a demon hunter and that.
Well -
Greed lifts his hand, bringing with it a thick chunk of industrial-grade chain. With a snap of his fingers, he calls what he can from the world. A single cigarette crackles between his knuckles - its tip smoldering and smoking from whence it came. He brings it to his mouth. What little he can savor, he does, and while a familiar sensation burns at the back of his throat, his eyes retrace the long pipe again. No, he hadn't been prepared for that little surprise. It wasn't one of the ones he knew, far from it. A new white-collar hot shot looking to climb the ranks. But he, she, they had everything they needed to get the job done. And in the end, he was bound, chained, and dragged down into the bowels of some God (the irony) forsaken basement of a church miles away from his previous destination.
That was in what humans called July; when the humidity really set in and the roaches of the world multiplied in the hot, persistent damp.
Greed winces as his wrist turns just enough to let him exhale through his teeth. The shackles against his skin have been treated to an almost militant schedule. Fresh holy water first, blessed wine second, and a touch of real divinity to seal the deal. Honestly, under any other circumstance, he would be impressed by the whole thing. Each detail of his imprisonment is perfect; the execution of it, air tight. And isn't there a story the mortals used to tell once upon a time? The man of Greece who once tricked death -
His teeth bite into the filter of his smoke, squishing the padding and warping it into a tangled, lumpy mess.
no subject
And for their nature, the most necessary.
Capturing the very essence of the Sin himself, in the flesh and whole on the mortal plane was absolutely a victory worthy of the highest accolades. One should be proud to have trapped him so thoroughly and it was only appropriate that he be exalted above his given status, that ladder free to climb for one so ambitious. And foolish. Of course, the angel in question had been careful. The prison as it was had been hidden in plain sight, making finding it the proverbial needle in a haystack. Or hay in a haystack, as it were. The city was rife with leaking run down basements, old abandoned tunnels, and all manner of other secret places within which one little demon might be spirited away. With the proper wards put in place it would be all but impossible to find.
But Murmur was never one to give up, no matter how daunting a task. He had a familiarity with the shifting underbelly of dark and twisted places that most of his brethren would balk at in horror. His status, order of Angels and order of Thrones equally allowed him to slip largely unnoticed. Angels of the lowest rank and lowest sphere, nothing to be concerned about, and Thrones of the highest and most alien order and yet believed mindless machines, their inner workings no more complex than that of gears. If there was one truth about his duplicitous brethren it was this: to exist only within the light was to render oneself blind.
Almost as soon as he'd heard the news Murmur had gone to work trying to locate the captured Sin, but the other angel had been unusually thorough. With wards and bindings galore they had ensured that for as tiny and uninspired as Greed's cell was, it was hidden even from the piercing eyes of the Angel of Sight. However, he hadn't gotten as far as he had relying on singular methods alone. Eventually the angel slipped, just enough, and Murmur found his way.
The irony of utilizing an old church basement hadn't been lost on him, but Murmur couldn't risk going through the front door, no, not for this escapade. It was one of those basements with a narrow window just above the ground, against which mud and water pooled in the torrential rain. Hardly the most dignified approach, but one subtle enough all the same. As quiet as he could manage, though the old hinges creaked and screamed their protest that was fortunately drowned out by the thunder and rain, Murmur managed to pry the window open enough to poke his head in.
"You've got yourself in something of a predicament, I see."
It was impossible to tell if the waft of cold was from him, or just from the air outside given the ferocity of the storm.
no subject
A flare of orange ignites as he takes another drag off his cigarette. "You could say that," he hums behind the soft part of his hand. Thin wisps of smoke peel between the cracks of his fingers only to die on his skin and morph into heavy, numbing clouds. They have no where to go and just like him, the smoke wanders aimlessly for an exit; their metaphor not lost on him in the slightest.
Scabby blood splinters on his forehead as he arches his eyebrow. Greed lowers his hand from his face and his wrist cracks the side of the metal slab he's been chained to with a ghostly rattle. "You sound like shit yourself." The Sin's lips quirk to reveal his unnaturally sharp teeth. By the looks of it, he's been down here a while. The small splits in his lip are dry despite the basement's dank disposition, his skin's pale, and the chains biting into his flesh have left their tell-tale marks. Around his throat, a reddish-purple bruise angrily festers. Of course, it won't last - they never do. But with a thorough binding, even devils have their limits.
For the time being, he's at their mercy.
Greed flicks his fingers to send a wad of ash wafting to the floor below. "Had a little run in with one of yours," his voice hisses through his teeth and another rush of smoke drives itself out of his nose. It cruises across his chest; the look of it like a dead-man's army rushing to the battlefield. "-they interrupted one of my deals. Kind of rude, if you ask me." A touch of humor plays in his tone and on his face. Just because he's pinned like some sort of museum prize, that doesn't mean he's defeated. Far from it. After all, what is it they say?
Idle hands and the devil?
One of his ankles fidgets and the chord of heavy metal laced underneath the table strangles to a tight, hard line. "Don't suppose I can still count on you to be a little more reasonable, can I?" Greed tries to turn his neck to peer at the window, but his prison quickly puts an end to that. A few links of chain grip deep into his throat. They reopen a couple of the half-crusted wounds, making them crack, bleed, and split into fresh reminders. "Shame, I don't even get to have a good look at you. What a pain in the ass."
Again, he tries and again, he fails; the sudden, choking grunt in his throat a clear indication.
The Sin lets his head fall back with a solid thd against the table, and he lets out a short laugh. "You haven't changed at all. Not that I expected to you, but - " His tongue touches his lip and drags it back into his mouth. He can taste his blood again: how foreign it almost feels and how familiar it is now. Greed's finger traces out what's left of his cigarette. No, nothing does change. Angels don't change, they're bound by their decrees. Devils don't change, they're pulled by their nature. And mortals, ah mortals. They aren't even close to an exception. Even as the world turned towards something different, those inclinations, those wants, those needs, those fears - they would still be there, wouldn't they?
Yet maybe, just maybe -
Another pillow of ash falls from his smoke, forgotten and lost to the unforgiving concrete. Greed edges his eyes open. "I wasn't going to kill him, y'know. His life had already done that for me. I never actually kill the ones who take my deal. That's their choice." He swallows and the collar clamped to his neck shifts ever so slightly. "You'd think they would know that by now, but it always comes down to this. They beg for their life back, but I never even took it in the first place. Ha - !" The Sin barks, coughs, then quickly returns the cigarette back to his mouth.
"I give them every opportunity. And don't get me wrong, some do. They turn their lives around, take what I've given them, and go out for more. Hope," slurred are his words; his voice merely strings and whispers of smoke. "-there's nothing wrong with having too much hope. Yet, yours would say that's somehow a bad thing and that they deserve whatever's coming for them."
The cigarette shrinks under that need of his and its orange glow dampens. "Kind of a rotten deal, don't you think?"
no subject
Despite how Greed might feel about the holy host, there were those among them who still remembered their roles, and that at their core they're all just different sides of the same coin.
"Do I?" The stranger inquired as he'd ducked back out of the window to readjust, reaching in to grasp beams just above the window's frame to brace himself as he slid backwards in through the narrow opening and landing almost silently on the floor. "I suppose it has been a long few nights." Not chained and tormented, perhaps, but busy. Then again, Thrones didn't sleep. That nature resulted in its own kind of weariness with time. "Yes I had noticed that," He quipped at the remark of how Greed came to be in this situation, a bottle of ice cold water pressed against his chained hand. It wasn't much, but it might get some life back into him while Murmur went to work.
For his part he wasn't particularly remarkable to look upon. Average, almost aggressively so, and yet he still had that strange air of something not quite human about him that often marked his kind. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, a little lighter and a little more graceful than his form might imply him capable of. Perhaps it was the way he never quite made full eye contact, often seeming focused on something else miles away, or listening for a voice only he could hear. He did pause, tilting his head to the side in an almost bird-like mannerism as he listened to ensure that none had yet detected his invasion. "As I am certain you are well aware, my brethren are not well known for their manners. I, on the other hand, do still find value in them. It isn't poison, by the way." He'd not be cruel enough to bless water he was offering a demon to drink.
After a brief tour of the room, nose crinkled in mild disdain at the smell his eyes finally fell fully on Greed's battered form. While his expression remained one impossible to read, there was clearly some calculation going on there. Now that he was in, how exactly did he propose to get the demon out without drawing any attention? That's going to be the tricky part. That, and breaking down the chains and wards without removing an arm or two in the process.
"Mankind has ever had the flaw of placing the blame on all but their own heart, their own choices. It is the cost of free-will after all. However, I am no Dominion or Principality, it is not my calling to judge. Judgement is not why I am here tonight." In other words, Greed didn't really need to explain himself. The wretched soul that thought to ransom a Sin off to the holy host in order to save himself would be dealt with by those suited to the task. Suffice it to say the discovery of Greed's escape would not look good on his head.
"You presume much, Avarice." There's a lot of proclaiming going on there, and not a lot of asking. Murmur would have expected more curiosity, but perhaps his current state had left the Sin bitter and jaded. Well, time enough to correct that error, not that the strange angel was making it particularly obvious what he was up to just yet.
He set to work, first breaking down the angel captor's wards and replacing them with his own, intricate designs drawn in simple chalk over stone walls and rotten door. Wards to silence, wards to disguise the presence of those within. And most of all wards to delay detection while the seals that kept Greed immobilized were systematically dismantled. It would take some time, and the chains would be last, as Murmur had enough presence of mind to make a show of his truce lest the demon try to take a piece of him for his efforts. It never hurt to be cautious.
no subject
However, he's never been a fan of establishments or rules, nor of clear definitions. Absolute good doesn't exist. Absolute evil is a farce. And ah, ah, there really is no such thing as no such thing.
Greed's eyelids are heavy as he feels the cool touch of plastic against his skin. "That so? Been busy?" The sarcasm in his voice laces with a tired kind of humor and his mouth cracks again, showing his smile to a world that's been missing him. Despite the just and righteous trying their very best to rinse him out, his existence still lingers on. It pulses in the hearts of men and women alike, driving them to their desires and letting them feast upon them as shamelessly as they pleased. No, no amount of battering, no amount of burying him, could ever bleach that kind of want out. It was natural. It was divine. A pure thing as toxic as venom yet so sweet to swallow.
The cigarette in his fingers snuffs out without his constant attention and the Sin lets it fall into a wet smear below. "Ha - ! I'm pretty sure I got that when I ran into the little pissant earlier. Glad to know some of you can still keep things civilized," Greed's expression smooths over. "-hmn?" He starts, but then the bottle's in his peripheral and Hell save him, he's thirsty.
What little control he may have had just minutes ago goes out the window as soon as his teeth find the lip of the drink. His jaws snap at the plastic, causing it to buckle and deflate under the pressure. In all the quiet around them, the sound itself is alarming. The bottle creaks and whines; air pockets bubble and pop as he has his fill. And oh, does he have his fill. Trickles of water glide across his skin and rinse away the blood to form pink, thinning trails down his jaw line. His desperation, if nothing else, brought to the physical.
When he finally comes up, he's breathless. "Ahh." Greed's chest rises and falls as he catches up with the adrenaline. Where there had been cat scratches in his throat, a new kind of soothing takes hold. It doesn't sting as much to swallow even with the clamps of steel pressing against his throat. A minor relief, but one he'll gladly take without hesitation. He nips gently at the inside of his mouth as he listens to Murmur work. "Even if it was poison, you and I both know it wouldn't do very much. Besides, I'd like to think we're on better terms than that."
He tests his wrist again and manages to twirl one of his fingers. "Didn't mean to offend. Can't blame me, given the circumstances." The angel is right: mortals did have a habit of pushing the blame. "Figured it's only fair to give you my side of the story before you do something you might regret." He hums low in his chest and a deep vibration tickles in his core. While Murmur is nothing but silence, his work isn't, and Greed focuses in on what he can: the way the chalk softly scratches lines, how the plastic water bottle tries to reform back into its former shape. Noise, he realizes, is something he's been severely lacking all these months, and he can't help the small hiss of a laugh that teases behind his teeth.
Because isn't it so fucking ironic that his words always seem to come back to bite him.
Greed lowers his finger to try to feel out the table's supports. "So, what's the plan, then? After all this," he gestures with his left hand and flicks his wrist to illustrate his point. "-it's not like you can hide me forever. Eventually, they'll figure out I'm gone. Not that I really care what happens to yours, but I don't think it's very fair if you end up on the chopping block for it."
no subject
He deigns not to answer the first question, whether he believed it rhetorical or he simply didn't want to was equally left to be pondered without reply. He was busy, after all, trying to make sure his current task wasn't interrupted. The comment about them being on better terms did earn the faintest hint of an amused glance from the angel, who continued to hold his silence for the moment. It wouldn't last long, of course, but Greed had been locked down there long enough he surely had plenty to say.
"I am no executioner, Avarice. I find such methods distasteful." Not to mention it wouldn't do any good, he knew as well as Greed that eliminating the manifestation wouldn't rid the world of its existence. Instead it would leave a vacuum, something all consuming and unpredictable until a new Sin came into existence. For Greed would always exist, must always exist, it was in the nature of all created beings, and could not be so easily expunged. They were fools, driven by their own pride and greed to think otherwise.
"Simple, really, we get you back to where you belong. They may be bold enough to draw you into a trap, but even they are not fool enough for a direct assault. To execute an act of war that would surely necessitate a response would plunge Heaven and Hell into full-scale hostilities once more. To risk tearing the mortal world apart would be too great a cost, even for your captor." Ah, the concern was appreciated, and Murmur did offer Greed a brief flash of teeth, something like a smile and a snarl trapped in one strange gesture. Amusement still twinkled in his eyes as he finished with his warding. A few softly spoken words and there was a brief flash of light throughout the chalk drawings before they faded into the concrete and wood alike, invisible yet humming with power. That would do for the silence, now for the restraints.
For this he began plucking reagents out of pockets, some of which he less than politely stacked on Greed's chest with a muttered "Hold these," And no further explanation given. Though he did pause, and smirking faintly at his own joke added: "And try to hold still." As if Greed had a choice in the matter.
SORRY FOR THE DELAY bkgbsj
A snuff of sulfur puffs on his palm. "It's just Greed, angel," he lulls his voice, making it vibrate in his chest as low as a heater's rumbling exhaust. The smoke in his hand is dense; something thick, heavy, and yet weightless all the same. The Sin flicks his wrist. The smog in his hand gradually peels between his fingers and as it dissipates into thinning strands and eventual nothing, a small matchbox appears out of the gloom. For the most part, it's nondescript - an object so benign, it'd easily be missed.
Greed touches his nail to the side. "Are you sure about that?" How he asks is distant; like a man reminiscing about a story long gone. "You and I both know there's those of us who'd want that kind of reckoning. They've been after it for years." Again, he maps out his lower lip with his tongue; his expression both ancient and snide. "Who's to say this isn't part of the plan? C'mon, you're not that naïve."
Scrrch. The Sin's finger scratches and the matchbox ignites. It doesn't got up in flames like paper is supposed to. Instead, the top of it pops with a flurry of sparks - like a snap from a fire that hasn't quite died yet. "Then again, I've been wrong before. Ah - " The heat quickly dies down. What's left is a simple design on the top. Lines of red and ashy black sketch out what appears to be an impish creature of sorts. A caricature reminder of who and what he truly is.
Greed shakes the box once. "For the trouble," he starts back in with an offer. "-figured it could come in handy with whatever bullshit you have planned." Because he couldn't even begin to guess what the angel's up to. Devils have a different system with a whole different set of rules. Sure, there are similarities, but just like any other language, there's been variations and slight alterations over the centuries. Time, as well as their separate domains, have just increased their lack of mutual understanding.
When Murmur dumps his cache on his chest, the Sin rolls his eyes into the back of his head. Another clear sign of his discontent. "Not like I really have a choice, do I? Pissant - " His tongue lashes at his teeth, but the smile on his face says differently. Of course, Murmur couldn't help himself. He's always been like that. A little snark, a little spice, in all the Heavenly Father's pomp and circumstance.
It was, and is, a refreshing change.
Greed pushes the matchbox closed and the image on the top fades back into a matte black. "Can't keep my word on that, but it's not like I've been given a lot of wiggle room, lovely." His jaw curls. Even with the odds stacked against him, his disposition hasn't changed too much. He's still vicious, still wanting - a creature of habit through and through. "Just hope we don't end up making a habit of this, or I'll have to start asking a little more out of you."
No worries!
"Very well, just Greed." There's that cheek again, spoken in a soft monotone it's almost impossible to pick up the gentle humor there. Despite his sass, he continues his work. Taking reagents one at a time to begin applying them to the iron bindings holding Greed in place. The trick was simple enough, utilizing methods available and known both to mortal and demonkind alike it would leave a trail unlikely to suggest an angelic presence. Something to throw off the hunt from his trail directly, not that Murmur wouldn't lay low until the heat died down all the same.
"I am," For the moment, busy as he was, he only glanced at the offered match box with interest. "Your captor is arrogant, not stupid. Others on the other hand..." They would be pursued, yes, but those he could redirect more easily. "I may require your spark here in a moment." He just snorted at the comment about being naïve, of course he isn't. And that's why they're not going to be leading their pursuers straight back to Greed's den. That would be foolish.
Once he finally finished laying out the trap he began gathering up his supplies stuffing them back into hidden coat pockets like some kind of wearable bag of holding. Only then did he finally reach out to take the offered match box, eyeing it curiously. "What's this?" Even while he asked he proffered a simple small slip of paper, no larger than a grocery receipt, scribbled with incantations and arcane runes. "Light this, if you would please, then hold very still." He's going to blow the bindings and he'd prefer it if that didn't come with too much damage to Greed in the process. He'll heal, it would just be inconvenient.
One more derisive look. "If I keep having to come to your rescue you're going to start owing me for the trouble."
no subject
Greed's throat bobs under his collar. "Ha - ! What a fucking smart ass," a wheeze strangles his voice. "No, they're not stupid, you've got that right. But it's a little ironic - I never did like Pride very much." He practically kisses the air when he sucks in a breath; the noise behind his teeth, a stinging kind of snap. "Funny that yours always seem so wrapped up in it."
Pride was the oldest, so it really shouldn't have been that much of a surprise. After all, wasn't that how this whole thing started? A bit of pride, too much ambition. In the end, it had meant the collapse of it all. And while there had been those who fell to their demise, they had crept out of the craters left in the aftermath. Living distortions of all that was good, twisted and craving for eternity.
The Sin's hands splay out with as much of a shrug as he can manage. "It's a matchbox, but that's not what you're really asking, is it?" His fingers stroke the air. "You can call it a calling card. I only offer it to a few people, so consider it a favor. Equivalent exchange." Greed's eyes turn to try to take a look at the other. He can see a bit more of his work now: the small slip of paper, the various scribbles written on its surface. At this angle, they come through all backwards - like a passing sign in a rearview mirror. He can read the gist of it, but it takes him a moment. And as his cat-slit eyes flick over what's written, he can't help but be impressed. Leave no track, no trace. And ah, ah, ah, how faithful Murmur truly was.
"Oh - ? A please? That's a first." Nevertheless, Greed snaps his left thumb and another wandering flame trills over his fingernail. "Starting to like me a little better?" His smile wrinkles his face, making his lips thin out and his teeth expose themselves to the dim. He raises his lit finger to his mouth and as it touches his lip, the Sin shoos a low exhale out from between the cracks of his jaws; his look, like a coy librarian trying to quiet a rowdy bunch of children. The reaction that follows is immediate. The fire bursts out, its fingers reaching delicately to snatch at the piece of paper.
no subject
"It is among our greatest flaws," He concedes, and there's the faintest touch of sorrow to that. It's again whisked away by the business-like nature that seems to dominate this one. It's something he tries not to dwell on, the horror of watching his brethren fall, the pain of all that loss. These things happened so long ago and yet the wounds never do fully heal, do they? It's not something he's going to dwell on now. There's a job to be done and Murmur is very good at keeping it professional.
He doesn't answer the obvious question, only inspects the matchbox closer upon the revelation of what it truly was. With a sound of quiet approval through his nose he tucks it into an inner pocket on his coat, moving to resume the task at hand.
"As I said, I am not without my manners." He feigns haughtiness, but it's not very convincing, nor does he maintain the look for long. With the flames sparked he lets the paper catch, it spits and crackles far more violently than any tiny sheet of paper had a right to do. Quick as you will he touches the paper one by one to each prepared brace and with a crack and brilliant flash of light each blasts apart. One by one by one and soon enough Greed the bindings are broken and Greed can finally free himself. Once done he flicked the remaining ashes away from his gloved fingers, stepping back to allow Greed the room to extract himself from his bindings.
"And voila."
no subject
Greed's eyes snap open, the whites of them wide and gaping. "HAHAHA - !" Where the chains had left their mark, his skin quickly begins to repair; the lapping of red electric and sizzling hisses effectively licking his wounds clean. The Sin flexes his fingers. "Oh, you do know how to work your magic, don't you?" He asks and his body slowly rises up from the table like reanimated ghoul. He tests his neck by rolling it to one side and then the other.
Cnch, cnch.
"Ah, that's much better." Greed shoves his palm deep into the muscle to push away any remaining kinks. Of course, he'll need a little more time to be at his full potential. But for now, he's functional. Upright. And as the venom from the binding slowly wanes, he can sense that spark of his igniting again; his core, all but calling back to him from the bowels below.
The Sin shifts, allowing his sharp-cut heels to clack against the basement floor. "Mnn. I guess we should get out of here, shouldn't we?" He tests his footing, stumbles, then rights himself again. "Ah, might still not be 100% here, friend. But first - " He licks the corner of his mouth, pushing a dry spot off to the side. His captors had done a good job denying him not just of his freedom, but of his things as well. And maybe, that had been the entire point. Choke avarice out, starve it, until it was nothing more than a husk.
Greed saunters about the basement towards a locker in the back corner. He doesn't bother trying the door, but instead shoves his fist through the steel at the side, leaving a toothy, bent-metal hole. "Not about to let them have what isn't theirs. I'm sure you can understand," he hisses. From inside, he pulls out a few things: a leather jacket with a fur-collar trim, a set of keys, and a black checkbook with no markings or company logo to distinguish it from anything else.
He gingerly tosses on his jacket with some effort and pockets the rest. "Now, we can go. Though, you might wanna be quick about it." A humming trill tickles the back of his throat, and Greed rolls another matchbox out from the inside of his sleeve. It catches between the points of his nails like a promise.
Because steal from avarice and Lord, oh Lord, you might get burned.
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The angel does shoot Greed a firmly "must you?" look, at both the laughter and his trotting about collecting his things. He lets out something of a frustrated sigh, but so long as Greed didn't dally overmuch he wouldn't verbally complain until it became truly dire. "Do try to be swift," He hisses, already moving back to the window to vault himself up and begin scrabbling out. Still somehow managing to make even the less dignified escape look somehow graceful. Angels are cheaters like that. Bracing himself against the frame he offers down a hand.
"I might want to be quick?" He scoffs, gesturing for Greed to hurry up so he can pull him out. "Take any more time and I might begin to suspect you want to hear the trumpets sounding." He's only being snappish because now the chase was really on, and as swift as Murmur could flee by himself it would be much more difficult to pull Greed along with him. It would be extremely hard to explain why he was carrying a demon should he be caught in the act.
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"Hmn. Yeah," when he finally answers, he's distant. A man caught in a completely different thought. The Sin shrugs his shoulders. He follows Murmur towards the window and the matchbox sails over him and behind his back. The fire doesn't take immediately. It leaves plenty of time; enough for him to scramble up and out the shallow window, his body twisting and writhing as nimble as a serpent squirming out of a trap. It's only when the square of his heel finds a crumbling piece of brick, does he finally pop loose.
And oh, isn't it poetic? Sin itself, back in the swill of it all.
Greed plants the flats of his hands into a puddle of water. "Might be more exciting otherwise - tch." Crnch, and another bone in his neck slides into place. The catching fire in the basement presses faintly against the glass. What had been murky before is now a low glow; a fever of reds and yellows licking where they can and setting beams alight in scales of burnt-crisp destruction.
The Sin staggers out of the muck on one foot, then two. Combined with the steady onslaught of rain, he looks like a drowning victim. His hair flattens across his forehead, the leather of both his pants and jacket cling to him for dear life. Greed casually shoves his thumb into a nostril. A snort later, and the last of the caked-in blood sizzles on the pavement.
"Kind of hard to be as fast as usual friend. Eh - " He checks the sky. Overhead, the clouds roll out their frustration. Lightning sharpens across the skyline like a warning and a low-howling wind batters the alleyway, turning trash into a concentrated funnel.
Greed shakes his head and runs his hand quickly through his hair to spike it out. "Lead the way, then. I'm sure someone's bound to visit pretty soon. Made sure it wouldn't all catch right away, but I only gave us a few minutes."
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Greed's display was very dramatic, he's sure, but Murmur had far more to worry about than to appreciate the aesthetic of the fire's glow glinting off darkened lenses or the winking flash of a baleful light in the storm. No, he has to worry about an escape route.
"Do you have a... what are they called? Vehicle?" Is that the word? He thinks it may be. They'd do much better in that than on foot. While the water drenches, soaks, and clings to the Sin it doesn't quite seem to seep so on the angel. Unlike so many of his brethren this one is not a being of fire, but of storms and ice. The sea and the rain are equally his domain, and while that water does dampen him, it rolls off him much as it does the feathers of a duck. He is quite decidedly in his element, something that will grant them a little cover for a time longer yet.
"Neither you nor I are capable of fighting off an enraged Holy Host, we are best slinking in the gutter out of their lofty gaze." Most would find that humiliating, but Murmur has never been a fan of Pride. He will do whatever is necessary, no matter the cost. He turns heel to begin leading them away from the crime scene. The mortals will catch on soon, better to be well out of their way before questions have to be answered. "You know this world better than I, where might one go should they wish to disappear?"
sdgkjbs SORRY FOR THE DELAY MAN ...
Though, even that seems to have a catch.
The Sin clicks his tongue behind his teeth. "Follow me." He doesn't wait or even bother to check to see if the angel is following him. Rather, he appears to be more focused; tuned in. Like a big cat with hunger in its belly and ah, ah, ah, is there prey to be had.
Greed slouches against the rain, his shoes and heels making the slosh and muck pluck themselves into deep, steaming pockets behind him. While he exactly doesn't have a vehicle at the ready, that doesn't mean he can't find one. And in a town as winding as this, in a place full of empty holes to stick him in, it wouldn't be hard to find something of use.
Another shudder of lightning splinters above them, turning the sky into a purpling bruise. "As for that other thing, just leave it to me, hmn? Sometimes I wonder if you actually trust me, handsome." A shivering streetlamp surges above the narrow street they're on in a gassy yellow and while the bulb struggles to keep alight, the Sin's body visibly stiffens. He's caught something in his eye. Something suitable, right, and perhaps, God's chosen aren't the only ones with a little bit of luck.
Greed's arm shoots out from his side in a sudden, violent snap and the flesh on his hand quickly disappears. From his fingertips upward, a second skin begins to crawl itself into place. It turns his nails into talons, his knuckles bulbous and boney. The look of it like an oil slick with the ability to defend itself. The Sin lets out a soft whistle. "Looks like your prayers have been answered," he hums before the block of his fist meets the driver's side window. With a splintering crack and a sprinkle of shattered glass, he's in. All hands, all want, clambering to take what's his.
He shoves a button on the inside of the door and the lock on the passenger's side clicks open with a soft plunk. "After you," he slurs. The angel may have his perks against mother nature, but him? His have always been with the material. The needs of mankind, the desires of them, all but molding under his fingertips. Greed rips opens the plastic console under the steering wheel with little more than a pop and squeal of plastic, leaving the insides as open and raw as freshly killed carcass. Half outside the car, sprawled and stretched, he gets to work. A dash of hellfire there, an impish tweak here - a devilish mechanic, engrossed in his work.
Finally, the Sin leans below the steering wheel. He extends his tongue between two particular wires and a small electric current buzzes over his teeth. Greed grips the upper curve of the wheel to pull himself into the driver's seat, and he yanks the door shut. "It'll take a while to get there. Just don't judge them too much, hmn? They are mine, but they won't bother you unless you give 'em a reason to. Ah - "
A pleased sort of smile graces his face. It lights him up from the inside out; a breath of sorts, filling him up with all that fire, all that wickedness, that he had been missing. Greed thumbs a built-in lighter into the dash and as he turns to check the rearview, he haphazardly throws the car in reverse. Mud and water screams murder under the wheels as he wildly jerks the vehicle out of its parking spot. A second later, and he punches into first gear, forcing the car to zigzag out of the muck; its swinging spin, like a fishtail darting under the tide.
It's all good!
"Trust? A tall order in times like these," He scoffs, but despite the monotone it's good natured coming from the frosty angel. He plays the distance and dismissiveness well, and yet here he is sloshing through the mud after the Sin whom he could have easily left to his own devices once the trap was sprung. Could have left him to his fate as well, though that would have proven to be a headache for all further down the line. The universe will always seek balance, a new Sin will rise, and that one might not be as accommodating as the one he's accustomed to.
Ah, their chariot awaits. Gleaming brilliant in the flash of lightning and sputtering of street lamps, just asking for the taking. Of course Murmur feigns a disappointed look at the act of theft and window breaking, but it bore no more venom than the rest of his haughty act did. It was merely the act of going through the motions, behaving as he should in the presence of Sin rather than with any real feeling behind it. Righteousness was reserved for very special occasions, and he did ask for a vehicle. Of course, he was grateful Greed broke the window on his own side, so he can spend the drive being wet and uncomfortable.
While Greed works away on getting the beast running Murmur makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He can't drive, so it's not like he'd try to anyway, he also doesn't bother with seatbelts because what are those anyway? So while Greed works, he's popped open the glove box and is taking the time to scribble arcane symbols inside with that chalk produced from within his coat once more. Might as well do a little work while the Sin's busy. He can ward it up more later, once they're out of the thick of it.
"Them?" He asks, ignoring the implication of him being judgmental. He already told Greed that's not his wheelhouse. "Come now, you should know by now I do not make a habit of instigation." He is very polite he'll have you know. As for the driving? He does cast Greed a sidelong glance as if to ask 'must you?' He won't protest, not out loud, but he will make faces of disapproval. "Try not to roll this over on the way, would you?" It wouldn't kill them, but it would be inconvenient.
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Greed plays footsie with the clutch and the gas as his free hand shoves the gears, effectively reversing his fate and throwing them forward in one fell swoop. At first, he seems to miss the angel's questions entirely - his attention drifting to the sensation of it all. He lets the cracked-tooth window spit rain in his face, he cranks the car a bit faster than is certainly legal. Everything. It's always boiled down to that simplicity: everything. It floods through him as entrapping as an addict to their substance of choice. And like a man chasing his poison, his thrill is just as deadly and just as plainly visible on his face.
The Sin's mouth warps into a lunatic's sneer and faint trails of black-rich smoke peel through his teeth. He starts in again with a small bark of laughter. "Ha - ! A tall order, huh? I suppose," his tongue lashes out and the tip languidly begins to split in a rake of hot, red coals. "Can't blame me for trying. Here - " He fishes a phone out from the pocket of his vest and haphazardly tosses it into Murmur's lap. "-dial 003-12-7. If someone picks up the line, just say Ouroboros. It'll connect you to our next stop."
Wildly, he lets the wheel spin through his fingertips and the car bounces onto a main road. "You do know how you to use one of those, right? Nevermind." He waves his wrist and the black screen statics. At first, it merely blues out in the dark; the sudden onslaught of fake light and bright colors all but washing the inside of the vehicle in a soft, foggy haze. The Sin makes a few, simple gestures with his fingers and as traffic lights blare their greens, their yellows, and reds, the phone begins keying in the numbers one at a time:
003-12-7
Greed takes another erratic turn onto the freeway. "As for the other thing - " He begins while the phone connects to the radio of the car. For a while, a dial tone is all he gets; its tolling noise a constant heartbeat waiting in anticipation. When it clicks to a receiving end, he wastes no time.
"Oi, oi, oi - coming in hot, sweetheart. And I've got company this time - "
"Where the FUCK have you been!?" A male's voice practically barks through the car's sound system, making it static as the Sin carelessly plunks into a rather large pothole.
"Oh - ? Sounds like the hound's a little mad with me. C'mon, don't be like that," Greed's voice curls out of his throat like a fire trying to flirt. The skin around his neck bristles in turn and flakes of pitched soot quiver off the dip of his collarbones. "Ran into a little bit of trouble and not the usual kind."
The man through the radio's silent for a second. "What kind of trouble? Are you ok? Where are you? And what do you mean company? Greed - Boss - "
The Sin's laughter hisses from his grinning mouth, wide and smoggy. "HA - ! Oh, don't stick that tail between your legs just yet. We'll just say I had a little divine intervention - " That earns a quick sputter of curses through the speakers and Greed jovially slaps the steering wheel a few times. "No, he's not that bad. Remember what I told you? There's - "
"-no such thing as no such thing, yeah. I know - ! But can we really trust this guy? I mean we're talking about - "
"Now, no need to be rude. He's right here," Greed gestures with his hand at nothing the man on the other side of the line could possible see and that shuts up the call real quick. The sound of a shattering bottle makes its way through the receiver. Whether the Sin hears it or is, as par for the night's course, ignoring it is tough to say. "Just close up early. Get everyone who doesn't need to be there out. And - " He pauses to shoot a look at Murmur.
"-if you've got things we need, now's the time to ask."
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It was fortunate that it didn't take Greed long to remember he was dealing with someone who probably rarely, if ever, touched anything even remotely technological. When he handed Murmur the phone the angel just looked at it in deep confusion. Brows furrowed, expression one of intense puzzlement as he rolled it over in his hands trying to figure out what exactly he meant by "dial" and how one was supposed to do such a thing anyway? To him it seemed nothing more than a shiny flat rectangle of plastic and glass, utterly alien as anything beyond something one might use to prop up an unbalanced table.
Whatever gestures and magic incantations Greed used to activate the device served in no way to clarify how it worked, and Murmur just held it up pinched delicately between his fingers like he expected it to explode or something. Eyes darting between the object and where he thought one of the speakers was, and Greed, as absolutely nothing manifested to answer the questions reeling in his mind. What was this, how did it work, what was this trickery? And who was this Greed was talking to anyway?
Murmur was going to protest them continuing to talk about him like he wasn't there, but Greed took care of that before his confusion slowed down long enough to get words out. Okay, so, whatever this strange rectangle was it facilitated ranged communication. That wasn't impossible to grasp, the how wasn't necessarily important at the immediate moment even if the question would chew him up all night until he got an answer.
It took him several more moments to realize he was being invited to speak. "Ah..." Hold on, the angel is rebooting. "Well. I suppose if you want to remain difficult to find I could arrange something. I will require goat's blood. A quantity sufficient for the size of your domicile." You're gonna need a lot, Greed, a whole lot. "Graveyard dirt, and soot I... think you can manage without additional preparation." Glancing at how much Greed soots all on his own, they'll manage that just fine.
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"Yeah, fuck, yeah I got it. I don't know where the fuck we're going to find some of this, but I'm on it. I'll send Martel up to the butcher on the other side of town. She gets along better with the woman there anyway - " The Sin inhales his smoke as the man rattles on and the tip fumes a toxic orange-blue. "As for the rest of it, it's gunna take us some time. Boss, can you at least tell me what the fuck is going on?"
Greed shoves the lighter back into the console with an audible plnk. "I thought I was pretty clear about that. Don't tell me you're going deaf - " Again, his comment gets him a string-sputter of swears through the receiver. "-oi, oi, oi. All right, all right, calm down. The deal went south." He breathes in and the black coating on his throat begins to stretch upward, threatening both his jawline and ear. "The last one - the investor. Turns out he has friends with good information. Caught me off guard."
"Bradley? How in the shitting hell did he get his hands on - ?"
"Doesn't matter," the devil chimes back in, clipping the questioning off at its head. "-we'll be there in another 30 minutes. Just make sure you get it all handled, huh?"
"We'll take care of it. Just .. " The man trails off as if he's trying to find his words and pick them carefully. "Just be careful, would you? I know you'll be fine and nothing's taken you out yet, but - "
The cigarette shrinks in the Sin's teeth; his grin and insatiable hunger making short work of the tobacco. "Easy pup or I'll start thinking you've missed me. See you soon." With that, he waves his wrist and the call severs. Greed tiredly slaps his turn signal. "Sorry about all that. Dol tends to get a little frantic when things aren't ideal, but he's not so bad. A worrier sure, but he'll get you what you need."
He guides the car onto an offramp. Away from the highway, the signs of visible settlement quickly thicken. Houses and wooded off-shoots give way to bigger buildings and shopping centers. Wherever the Sin's made his home in this world, it's where people are. And while most places have either closed for the night or are on their way out, it's clear that he's planted himself in the midst of it all: a forest, a hiding spot, of steel, concrete, and lights that never truly go out.
A demon in a proverbial haystack.
Greed takes the main drag with little care of speed. "Try not to be too much for them, will you? They don't tend to like your kind very much." Another corner, a third. The deeper they go, the tighter the streets become until they're nothing more than one-way roads splintering out as confusing as a ball of knotted string. When he finally slows, it's under a brilliant, red light that he creeps. The sign above is damp under the weather; the paint of it old and well-loved. The Sin jumps the car up onto the curb as one of the floodlights strobes intermittently.
He cuts the engine. "Welcome to The Devil's Nest, angel."
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After that he's content to shut up and let Greed deal with his yapping comrade. Once the call was over and the strange device no longer needed he just set it in a convenient enough looking compartment, casting a sidelong glance at the Sin.
"You are certain they're competent?" They didn't sound competent. "And if I may... what was that about someone getting their hands on something?" Murmur didn't miss any of that, though he did note it had been cut off before Dol could say too much. He expected he'd be brushed off, but it didn't hurt to try.
Thankfully Greed knew how to hide himself, well... as well as he could among a world like this with little knowledge of the arcane. That said it would only do so much good, their adversaries wouldn't be traveling by vehicle or foot, they'd be traveling by air and use senses far above those of mortal kind to hunt their quarry. They had to work quick, and Murmur would have to make it harder for them to be sniffed out by Heaven's own forces. Hell might have their hounds... Heaven didn't need them. Meticulously Murmur memorized their streets, their signs, and whatever landmarks he could on their trip. He'd need to know how to get back there, for once he was finished with is work it would also become difficult for him to perceive.
Greed's comments about him being "too much" for his crew only earned another one of those flat looks. He'll be exactly as much as he pleases, thank you very much. "I am doing you and yours a favor, if you'll recall." So they're just going to have to deal with it, whether or not they like him. Besides, he was there to do a job, not make friends.
Finally at a stop Murmur opened his door, pausing to sniff the air before stepping out, nose wrinkled in distaste. Crawling with demons it set his teeth on edge and prickled every alarm bell in his senses. He'd tolerate it, of course, but that didn't mean he was any more comfortable being there than they were going to be having him around. He gestured for Greed to lead the way. "Best you introduce me." So they knew better than to start anything. Murmur wasn't one for a fight, that didn't mean he wouldn't defend himself should the need arise.
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It's the scent of the living: their foods and drinks, their fumes and industries, their nights and their lives washing over in a wave of cohabitation.
Greed shakes his cigarette and a spiral of smoke meets the fog like the embrace of friends meeting after a long departure. "What? Oh, that," he starts in while his body lifts itself out of the car. Much like before, his movements are ghoulish; he's heavy and light, tense and yet oh-so at ease. The Sin tiredly shrugs his shoulder while he passes under the roof of the car. "That's a long story. And like you said, we don't exactly have a lot of time."
Exposed to the weather, his smoke threatens to go out. The tip of it shivers under the neon overhang - a heartbeat more, and it could die out forever. Yet, it never does. Forcibly, the heat hangs on despite it all, and Greed idly shoos the driver's door closed. "Ha - !" He barks, forcing another peel of ash to shed from his throat. "That's a little harsh, huh? You haven't even met them yet."
He waves at something around his face before pocketing his hands and strolling toward the entrance. The alleyway he's chosen as his spot is nothing to write home about. Old, rust-toothed garbage cans stare back at the two of them like husked-out jack-o'-lanterns; their packaged insides, black and bulbous with garbage. The Sin nudges an empty bottle of something out of the way and as it scratches into a corner somewhere, he pauses.
"There's really only a few you need to know about," his back to Murmur, Greed begins to list things off on his fingers. "Dol's a hellhound and a pretty good one too. He's just a bit excitable. Martel's got a little bit of snake in her, so try to keep on her good side. Bido's harmless, just keep an eye on your valuables. As for Roa - " He trails off, and the silence fills with every clip and clop of his heels as he makes his way downward. "- he's a bit bullheaded, if you get what I mean. Silent type. He won't bother you unless you make him bother you. Other than that, if you need something brewed, it's the 'Doc you wanna talk to."
Finally, he closes in on the entrance. Whether on purpose or simply because he happened to like it, the door itself is pretty nondescript. A series of bolts lock it into place on the other side and a small slat at the top harkens back to a completely different time. The only thing of note are the candles. An arrangement of them melts softly in the corner; their blacks and golds mixing together in a raw, metal-worker's sludge.
Greed flicks out one finger and the nail on his hand curves, cutting raw sketches into the steel. "When I say three, try not to inhale. I know yours don't breathe, but trust me on this one." His hand arcs and sulfur lines begin to follow his movements. Up, down, around, sideways. The Sin breaks to put his cigarette back in his mouth. "You ready? One - "
He moves upward with his sketch and his earlier lines begin to ignite.
"Two - "
Sparks crack into life. They chase every inch of his design like a gunpowder fuse or a sparkler years past its expiration date. Whatever the source of the heat is, it's warmer than before. Stifling. White billows bleed into the steel, eating away small, hissing flecks until the small passage they're in becomes glaringly bright.
"-three."
And what crashes in is delirious. Shrill, violent static consumes the space - its presence both silent and impossibly loud; like that of an atom bomb dropped at a range far too close for comfort. For a few, horrible seconds, that's all there is: an endless white, a chamber of noise, clawing, biting, and scratching at wherever it can.
Then, comes the smell.
Putrid, raw, sweaty, sweet: they're all there, tumbled together and shaken just for good measure. The Sin makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat that's pleased, excited, and menacing at the same time; its tone akin to that of a man being both choked and willing to pay for it. When he exhales, the fantastic lights and nauseating sound fall back to nothing. Nothing save a dingy bar that (most certainly) wouldn't pass any current mortal codes.
Greed tests his neck. "AH - it's been a while since I had to do that," he takes his sunglasses from his face and swipes them once. A ceiling fan up above them trundles on its cables and as the dust and ash settles, he's met with the clambering of people. There's movement out back, soft shouts from below. The Sin weakly raises to his feet and with one hand out, he presses a single finger inside his ear.
"Boss - Boss - !" A man howls from the other side of the bar. It's the one from earlier, now made flesh. Where Greed may have height and demeanor on side, Dolcetto seems to have speed and maneuverability. The hellhound dodges obstacles (tables, a thrown aside chair, glasses) without missing a beat - his focus, trained on the Sin in question.
Greed sags his wrist to wave the hound away. "It's nothing, Dol. Just needed some insurance," the Sin purses his lips; his expression similar to someone from a dentist's office after a couple of numbing shots. "Did you get most of what we need yet?"
The hellhound fidgets. "No, not all. Martel's still out - " Dolcetto's eyes wander to Murmur and it's there, just there, that his true nature gives him away. His eyes aren't brown, they're yellow. His teeth aren't smooth, they're gnarled. The hound's upper lip twitches as if it doesn't know what to do with itself. "Gree - boss," he whispers.
"Yeah, I know. But he wouldn't be here if I didn't owe him one or didn't trust him. Angel, meet Dolcetto. Dol, meet the reason we're going to have a long night."
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Having nothing further to say on the subject of Greed's minions or their location Murmur stays silent, eyes wandering about taking in the details. Old walls stained with ages past, faded and fresh graffiti layers deep, piles of rusted and rotting trash and debris forming twisted abominations in the dark. All the signs of human life in its stinking, twisted refuse that rolls downhill and piles upon the 'less desirable.' It was a matter of fact that the most interesting of their species could often be found in places like this. Even more a matter of fact one could gauge the quality of a society by just how deep these urban junkyards went. For how they treated their least fortunate directly weighed against the value of those sitting at the top.
This world was rotten. Fortunately they'd been sworn to never do another flood.
As much as he seems to no longer be paying attention Murmur was listening to Greed's instructions. Thankfully he in fact did not need to breathe, and was mindful not to inhale when the demon began forging the door to his domain. Were Murmur a fledgling to such things he'd likely have been startled by the sudden violence of it all. The light, the sound, the smell would have sent most angels reeling in a panic of holy light and lashing out. Greed's lucky he's not dealing with someone more skittish, or he might have had a few burns that would prove much harder to heal than the minor inconvenience of his capture.
As it was, Murmur appeared barely phased by it all. Once it was over he simply blinked down at the devil on his ass, reaching up to casually dust some rain off the shoulder of his coat while the one identified as "Dol" came crashing over exactly like an over excited pit bull terrier. To his credit, Murmur didn't move. Not to assist, nor to get out of the path of a rampaging hell hound. He, more than most, understood the song and dance of bluff and bluster. To flinch would be to show weakness, to puff up and display would be to show threat. To do nothing at all? Well, he's long found that to have a much more amusing effect. No threat, no bluster, no flinching or showing off. Only calm watching with his head canted ever so slightly to one side. Curious, but not too curious. Let the demons scrabble about finding their footing with an enemy in their midst, he can wait.
"What were you saying about competence again?" He asked lightly, flippantly even as he eyed Dol fidgeting and admitting his failure. Really, just how hard was it to go out with a shovel this time of night? He did offer something of a faint inclination of his head in greeting. Polite, if heavily reserved. One did not risk excessive deference to a hound they didn't know. "I suppose there is a point to be made, if not for me your night may have been cut tragically short." Do stop blaming him for your failures, Greed, he doesn't much appreciate it.
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But that's it. No comment, no exchange of words. The devil quickly corrects himself and sets his path back to the bar.
"I told you, they're mine. Stop worrying so much," Greed's back dips and his jacket falls like liquid off his shoulders. He takes the time to shrug it off on a nearby stool where it drops disheveled into a pinched-up pile of upturned leather and fur. "-at this point, it'll be almost impossible for them to track us down. We have some time, angel."
Blindly, he stretches out his arm and lets his fingers search the backside of the bar. "Besides, haven't you ever heard the phrase? When there's no gold left, turn right, go left - ah." Srct: his nails find something and dig in. A hungry connection, sharp and cutting. Greed lifts a hefty bottle of Hell-knows-what from a hidden compartment and as his teeth tear through the cork like a hyena to a bone, a sliver of a smile creases on his face. It's the same one as before, though haggard. A devil-may-care attitude flooding in as the liquor pours deep down his throat. Because demons, devils - they were like that, weren't they? Creatures with enough ego, enough of a complex, that they always kept crawling back.
One of the bar stools tips dangerously to the side and Greed settles in, his one leg kicked up and stretched out on the counter's beaten-in edge. "Pup, you already got the dead man's dirt, right? Then we're just waiting on Martel." He tosses the cork of the bottle onto the bar top, letting it spin like a dreidel. "That woman's someone you don't have to worry about."
"Martel hasn't been gone that long, anyway." Dolcetto chips in. He's pointedly avoiding looking at Murmur when he can, save for the few, chaste examinations and glares. It's all too obvious that the hellhound has some internal conflicts about the situation. On one hand, there's an enemy in their midst. An enemy, by all accounts, they shouldn't even be speaking to right now. On the other hand -
On the other hand.
Greed takes another healthy swig of his drink before slapping the bottle on the bar top, making the liquor skip a beat in the glass. "Our heavenly friend does have a point, though. Try to make him feel comfortable, huh?" The Sin lifts his head. In the muddied mirror of the bar, his reflection seems to warp. It's still him: that same face, that same pin-prick stare. Yet, his eyes: they're brighter than before. A red bleeds out of them like tail lights chasing in the dark.
Greed sways his wrist. "Get something ready in one of the spare rooms. Once Martel gets back, we'll get everything settled." Another flaking peel of ash tumbles off his knuckles and Dolcetto's mouth screws itself into a worried frown. Again, however, he says nothing and instead eyes Murmur one last time before disappearing back into the building's deep and numerous pits.
The Sin flattens his hand on the bar top. "Take a seat, angel. Could be another few minutes before Martel shows up." A noticeable change chokes in his throat. It clings there, holding on and debating. He can't let down his shield, he never could. Yet, pushing himself as he did -
Greed's teeth tighten together into a jeering grin and the black at his collar hitches up a little more over his jawline. "You've really got me in a pickle don't you, you little pissant? Tch." His nails dig into the wood of the bar. He doesn't bother hiding it anymore; that black skin (as dark as oil and just as slick), the way his nails have extended and bent like a vulture's ever-seeking talons. It's the monster underneath it all, finally coming to the surface. An ugly thing, rotten and consuming.
And now? Now he has a debt to pay.
The Sin's mouth opens and a cloud of smog exhausts from his lungs. "Guess I owe you. So, what is it you want? When all of this is said and done. I am fair, remember. Equivalent exchange." He waggles his claws. "Name it and we'll see what I can do. I'd really hate to have a debt hanging over me."
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The hound may be uncomfortable having such an intruder, but Murmur was in the thick of an enemy's nest and severely outnumbered. He was no more comfortable with the situation than they.
"I have not heard such a phrase, no." He confessed, only looking perplexed at the strange wording. So, while Greed dug around for whatever it was he was after Murmur helped himself behind the bar counter as well, but he was looking for something quite different. A bowl, simple stainless steel and exactly what he needed. He tossed it on the counter next to Greed. "Ash in that, if you would." He's going to need it for what he's brewing. Might as well collect everything they can while they wait for the main ingredient.
As for Dol, Murmur seemed content pretending he wasn't there. The hound could scowl and glower all he wanted, Murmur wasn't going to be bothered by it. Now it was just a waiting game, his least favorite. The offer of a seat was met with a flat stare for a few moments before he sighed and relented, moving back around to go perch on a stool, eventually settling with his back and elbows leaned up against the bar. "One would think you'd be at least moderately more grateful, all things considered," He quipped lightly, not acknowledging the 'pissant' accusation.
The offer, though, was met with something of a sly sideways smirk on the angel's part. "I'm afraid that is a debt you're going to have to carry for a time, demon. When it is time you will hear my request and not a moment before." Greed's just going to have to squirm on it. No one enjoys having a debt hanging over them, bad news for Greed is that Murmur rather enjoys collecting them.
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"It's all in God's plan," they say. Perhaps that isn't so far from the truth.
A healthy clump of ash wafts off his hand and goes topside into the bowl. "You're missing a lot up there. Sure, you're watching it, but you're still missing the most important things. I don't get it." Humming, he reaches up to his throat to give his neck a light scratch. While his nails should, by all accounts, tear his flesh to ribbons, they meet the charcoal coating like gears grinding in the dark, and sparks fissure off his fingertips. "That's the problem with you and it's why yours always seem to have to resort to extremes. Tell me, when's the last time you really sat down with them? Really gotten to know them? You could learn a few things from the mortal lot."
When he yanks his claws away, the shells of his nails are thick with soot. Greed taps them off into the bowl. "Miracles aren't worth shit anymore. It's what you do that matters. Isn't that what they teach you up there? Eh." The lines he scratched in blister to gold. They make a map of his throat; how it dips in places, how it thickens out into the bottom of his skull, how it expands whenever he sucks in at the backs of his teeth.
Greed wraps his free hand around the neck of the bottle and plugs it with a finger. "As for that," he snaps his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "No one said I wasn't grateful, pissant. I just don't like it when I can't settle my debts. And considering you, well." He noncommittedly shrugs one shoulder. "Not that I don't like you, but you tend to be a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes. It's too bad, really. If things were different, I think you and I could be good friends."
But they were batting for different teams and playing for different masters. Angels and demons didn't become friends.
The Sin shifts in his seat and slowly drags his foot off the counter to notch it into one of the rungs of the stool. A rumbling laugh shakes his throat. "Ha -! See, I told you - you are a pissant and a greedy one at that. This is why I like you. At least you aren't afraid to set your terms. But don't get the wrong idea," he slurs and the claw he has shoved in the liquor bottle hooks, drawing a faint line inside the glass. "I don't work for anyone else. You can call in your favor, but don't expect anything other than that."
A light blinks off in his jacket. Greed slaps his foot outward to tilt the seat and drop the phone into his waiting hand. "That's Martel. She's on her way back with the last thing you need - " The Sin's expression softens, amused. "Sounds like she had a bit of a time with it, too. I won't hear the end of it."
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"We cannot get involved, you know that. Our very presence is enough to nullify free-will, mortal kind cannot know of our involvement or existence. I am certain you see it still, the reverberations of our influence millennia after we stopped making contact remain." He gestures dismissively, letting out an impatient snort. "What's to miss? The destruction of this world, their greatest gift? The degradation of their souls? The efficiency by which they slaughter themselves? There may be no shortage of spare vessels to inhabit, but that is far from a ringing endorsement." That is to say it's been thousands of years for him since he'd last bothered to walk among mortal kind in any meaningful capacity.
Again a flippant and dismissive gesture, punctuated by Murmur lifting himself to perch on his stool more like a bird, rather than sitting in it like a normal person. It lets him keep his hands folded together in a triangular shape so that he resists the urge to fidget. It's unbecoming. "They teach us not to get involved. As I said, it is not our place. Only despair follows such acts, or has no one told you the truth behind the Flood?" He cants his head to the side curiously, now fixing Greed with that unnervingly heavy stare of his. A weight which feels as though it's peeling away at one's very essence layer by layer to lay beneath a microscope.
There's a disdainful huff at Greed's complaints. "You would hardly be useful to me on someone else's leash." Not that Murmur had any intention of putting him on one either, but it's amusing to hold the implied threat there all the same. Keep Greed guessing what might be coming down the line. "And you think we cannot now? Why?" It's not like he actually has any friends to speak of, so this is hardly different. Still, he did have to wonder what made it so impossible.
Then there was an interruption from their conversation, Murmur finally released Greed from his dreadful stare to stare blankly at a wall thousands of miles away. "Good. Finally." Once he was done perhaps he could just be on his way. Surely Greed could look after himself from this point, no? "Do they no longer keep a healthy supply of goats around?"
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A shame. He always found that gray so much more inviting.
Greed cocks one of his eyes open to watch Murmur. "There it is. You're always thinking in absolutes. Sure, they aren't perfect, but it wasn't so long ago that yours weren't either," he tests his mouth again and a feather of ash lifts off his lip to join the rest of his growing collection. "I can't blame you, it's in your nature to see the worst of what they are. But tell me this: if you really think there's no point, why bother? Everything you do - " Trailing off, he eyes the bar's back mirror again. The points of him (the ones that pass as human anyway) are starting to fade more and more. His pupils trill in their sockets, threatening to pull apart and multiply like cells in a furnace, his skin is a pale, his teeth have elongated ever-so-slightly. Greed draws his shoulders up to his ears and as he pulls himself from his stool, the cloud he leaves behind is murky and thick. A devil's fog, whispering his movements.
"Why? Because you'll always be like that." He lifts his clawed hand and taps at the air. "You'll always be running to the morals that define you and I'll always ignore them. You can't help what you are, handsome and neither can I." The Sin tips his head to offer a cagey, toothy grin. "Doesn't mean I don't like you, far from it. If things were different, I'd have you in a heartbeat. Everything that you are, everything that you can do. But I told you: everyone wants something they can't have. I'm no different. Mmn."
Jerking, the Sin meets the sound of an opening door with an admiring look. "I'm not one to be on anyone's leash. And I think, at the end of the day, neither are you if you gave it a chance." Loud thumps rumble from the stairwell as he talks. Someone (something) has arrived with a hefty cache. "Save that thought, though. Seems beautiful has come back with everything you need."
Sure enough, a younger woman slinks into view from the bowed-out overhang making up the bar's entrance. At first glance, she could easily pass as human. Her nearly shaved head and face tattoo give her the look of a military brat gone rogue. Yet unlike Dolcetto, there's a cold demeanor about her that screams; that shouts, hisses, and silently rattles to keep far, far away.
Greed's smile brims when he sees her and he can't help the short, curt whistle as he watches her shoulder a rather burly, freshly slaughtered goat. "Well, well. That certainly is impressive, lovely."
Martel gives him a single, cool stare before shoving the goat off her shoulders and onto the floor with juicy thud. "Nothing impressive about it - what kind of shit did you get into anyway, boss?" She catches Murmur and her eyes narrow, if only by a hair. "I actually don't want to know all the details. Can Roa carry this to where ever you need it to go?" The knife strapped to her shoulder pops out after a quick play of her fingers and Martel casually wipes it on her pants.
"I'm sure he can. Good job, Martel," the Sin pockets his hands and shuffles his feet closer to the carcass. "No one bothered you while you were out, did they?"
Martel pauses, her knife held stiff and at the ready. After a moment, she shoves it back into its sheath with a leathery shhhss. "No, no issues. But - " Now that she's gotten a better look at him, her expression subtly shifts. She makes out Murmur again, chases Greed's ash. It isn't worry on her face, least not the normal kind. It's a hesitation. A concern buried under layers of defense and a need to coil up and constrict any feeling, any at all, until it chokes itself out.
She rubs her thumb against her index finger. A nervous fidget. "-you are ok, right?" She asks, softly.
Greed dips his spine to flash his extended teeth. "I'm fine, I promise. Just ran into some trouble. Our friend here is gunna fix it. Then, we'll all be on our merry fucking way." His lips shrink back together. "Don't worry about it. You've done everything you need to tonight. Go take a break. We'll let you know when it's all done."
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"I never said there was no point, do not put words in my mouth. You also continue to make sweeping assumptions about me. You are not much different than that which you condemn." Maybe Greed touched a nerve, maybe Murmur is just getting tired of circular conversation and stress. It was hard to say, but there seemed to have been the very slightest cold edge that creeped into his usual monotone at that. Thankfully he was spared having to elaborate or continue with the tired argument not terribly long after. He does have enough time to cast Greed something of a puzzled look at the claims of being willing to 'have him.'
Not knowing how to respond to that, Murmur's happy for the distraction of Martel arriving with their package. Hopefully the slaughtering didn't involve cutting too many holes in it, they need all the blood they can get. At the very least this one looked more competent than Dolcetto did.
While they spoke Murmur hadn't moved, simply remained perched where he was like a weird bird, silently regarding the conversation. When he said he needed the blood he assumed that would come alongside a bucket... perhaps he should have been more clear? Well, nothing for it now. They'll make do with whatever they can find.
"You were setting up a room for this, yes?" Back to business as usual, all sign of emotion gone again. It's easier to be the impartial mask, he's been playing that game so long it just comes naturally.
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Shallowly, the Sin hangs his head. "Hey, hey - calm down, would you? You know I didn't mean anything by it." His spine writhes when he responds; as if a bundle of snakes were squirming just beneath his skin, ready and waiting to strike at whatever got too close. "I like you, angel. Haven't I said that enough?" His clawed hand stretches out and strangles the goat's bloated-belly carcass by one of its remaining horns. "I'm merely sayin' - it would be a lot easier if you weren't on anyone's side."
He pulls and the dead animal slowly slips off the floor, leaving behind a dreadful trail of loose hair and slop. Greed adjusts his arm to bring the goat's milky-eyed stare close for an inspection. "It's not like I'm taking orders from below. Haven't been for a while, actually." His pupils tense and shiver to brittle points as he examines the butcher's empty kill. There's no life left in those vacant eyes, just death. A nothingness, a void, where they should be something. Whether it bothers him or not though, it's hard to say. The way he turns his wrist to get a better look at the killing-cut, how he flippantly adjusts his hold to follow the puncture wound to the obvious cause of death: there's something disturbingly vacant about it. As if the concept of mortality is somehow foreign, impossible, for him to understand.
The Sin breaks the staredown with another even smile. "'Suppose it's just not who I am." Meaning he reports to no one. Not his wretched kin, nor any other masters of the dominion below that may try otherwise. No, he's a rogue prince and an aloof king a long way from home with no intention of ever going back.
Though many sure have tried.
Greed rolls the goat onto one shoulder and jumps to settle the body into the crook of his neck. "Besides, my greed's just too much. If I stayed with them, it would never be satisfied. And that's enough of a reason for me. I just hoped that maybe, someday, you could be the same." He jerks his head to the side and the swarm of soot trapped about his skull finally thins, revealing the splintered, veiny cracks donning the crown of his forehead. "Nevermind that, though. You needed a room, right? C'mon," the Sin's voice slicks hot at the back of his teeth. Already, his tongue has visibly split somewhere along the line and the forks of it run like liquid fire over his lower lip. "-should it just be us, then? Or do you need the rest of 'em around to seal the deal?"
Deeper, deeper, deeper into the building he goes, moving passed unmarked doors, unlit corners, and skittering eyes that are there one moment and gone the next. If his prison were the epitome of holy grounds, his sanctuary is the total opposite. Things and creatures dart and move through every piece of the building like permanent haunts. Even the structure itself seems off in a way: the pipes groan through the floorboards, the lights blink sporadic nonsense. To the mortal lot, the proper description might be a hell hole. And ironically? Well.
It isn't that far from the truth.
Greed pauses at one of the many vague doors down a hallway and with a soft kick, he forces it open, bringing with it musty cobwebs and the scent of wet-slick concrete and brick. "Been a bit since I've been down here, so watch your step." An unearthly glow throbs from down below as the Sin elbows a questionable light switch. Silt, dust, forgotten times: they plume out as he descends. Each step, every groan of a stair, only releasing more, more, more.
The Sin balances the goat as he shuffles and skips over a step or two to avoid a large hole. "I'll have to get that fixed eventually. Keep to the left. Don't need you falling today, hmn?"
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After another long flat stare Murmur just moved on, hopping down from his stool to start making his way toward the halls. The sensation of the conversation being brushed aside nigh palpable in that simple gesture. He wasn't interested in playing these games, he had a job to do and he'd get it done. The whole sordid affair was starting to leave a bad taste in his mouth.
Death was no more poignant to the Celestial. While he had tasted its bitter sting, the distinction between the life of an angel being snuffed out and that of a mortal creature was as distinctly different as the death of a star and the impact of an asteroid. Death was in their nature, some things required sacrifice, and this night was no exception.
"Oh, don't act wounded now. Do not preach at me then play the victim when your carelessness comes back to bite you." This time his words lacked the icy sting they had earlier, he was back to feigning boredom with the conversation. It wasn't like the angel was good at being conversational, not when he found the subject tiresome. Greed didn't know his stance on mortals nor was he inclined to spend the whole night defending himself. It was tiresome and pointless. No, words were deceptive, it was only in action one could best perceive another's intent.
"At least one pair of hands that can run a paint brush, otherwise whatever you need. Their presence is not required." He just needs them to do the heavy lifting because that's monkey work and Murmur isn't doing monkey work, even if he does like them just fine. He follows along silently, little more than a frosty shadow at their backs down the twisting hallways. The angel does not seem particularly bothered by the presence of spying eyes and skittering darkness. It is as much home to him as the blinding light of Heaven, but again... Greed wouldn't know that would he? Again Murmur only leveled a flat, unamused gaze at the demon telling him to watch his step. He could see just as well in the dark as he could in the light and scarce needed to concern himself with balance. Still, he makes no further comment, merely following along on the despicable path toward damnation's gut.
"I am hardly inclined to break a bone, you realize." He chides, still sounding bored as he skips over it with that obnoxious grace of the holy ones. Still unbothered, still barely even acknowledging the depths to which they were crawling. One would expect one of the holy ones to be complaining and squirming by now, fussing about the filth and degeneration. Not this one, he took it in stride and moreover managed to look wholly unimpressed with the whole thing.
He's very sure this building isn't up to code.
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Besides, Pride was and is belongs to someone else entirely.
Greed shrugs and the goat's dead-fish head flops against his back, bloated and heavy. "Got the perfect one in mind. I think you'll like him," he starts in as more and more, the steps fall away. The angel is certainly right about one thing: the building isn't up to code. Least, nothing that would pass mortal laws and regulations. Fumes of unknowns sigh out of exposed pipes like the mouths of statues frozen in perpetual yawns; slick streaks of unholy bile trickle through the cracking foundation. If the Sin cares, he doesn't show it, even as he steps into a rather hefty puddle at the bottom, causing his heels to sizzle and pop like a blacksmith's hot irons to a cooling vat.
"No, you're not. But I forget what's down here. Figured I'd give you the courtesy," he hums, his body bowing into the single, solitary light furiously blinking away at the bottom of the stairs. This far down, there isn't much to see. A few emergency signs blur red from the twisted corners and time-worn holes, but other than, the basement is simply a wild, cave-like system. Whatever this part of the building once served for, it's been reduced to a belly. A place for his avarice to collect, store, and hide things away through the years.
Greed wipes his boot onto a dry spot, smearing a crescent shape into the concrete. "Besides, I think if I let you slip into something, our friend here would be pretty concerned." The Sin slinks out of the light's harsh, milk-yellow glow to sink into the dark again. "You still up there with us, Bido? You can come out, y'know. Mur here won't hurt you."
As if answering, something skitters above them, moving fast and balanced between the exposed beams and rotten wood. Whatever it is, it's small enough to travel seamlessly through all of the building's obvious hazards. Soft scritches chitter in the ceiling's nesting mess and as Greed moves, so do the sounds; their patterns like that of a cat cautiously following to see if maybe, just maybe, it'll get a meal for all its trouble.
The Sin pauses and the noises drop silent again. "Oi, oi, oi - come on down. It's safe, I promise." There's a clear shift in his tone in comparison to the rest of his crew. Where Martel had been given the usual slick and sweet and Dolcetto experienced his crude, oddly loving jeers, Greed handles this new comer with a sense of delicateness. As if Bido, whatever he is, could break by words and words alone. It's an intentional gesture and as Greed slowly lowers the goat's body to the ground, he opens himself up. His arms go wide, his chest beckons. It's a silent motion; a quiet answer:
"No one, nothing, will hurt you while I'm here."
And it does do the trick. One of the boards a few feet up bends as a distorted looking sack carefully lowers itself to the ground. The creature is both short and shy - his stance more similar to a beggar that's been beaten too many times to count. The burlap pile immediately runs to Greed to hide between his legs and examine the goat. "I - sorry, Mr. Greed. I wasn't sure - I was worried. I was - "
Greed curls his warm hand atop the man's head, patting it twice. "I know, but I'm fine. Remember? It takes - "
"- a lot more to hurt you, I know. But I heard about Bradley and the rumors about him being Wrath and I - "
The Sin's face darkens. "Yeah, surprised me too. Guess they needed a better host. But this one's nothing to worry about. He's here to make sure they don't follow. Think you can handle his demands?"
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"Oh?" Now he was intrigued, the others he'd been given warnings about to not bother or be too harsh, he'd yet to have the Sin suggest he might like one. As they travel it occurs to him that it's very fortunate he doesn't need to breathe, and that while his sense of smell was strong in specific ways things didn't tend to register as putrid as easily as they would for mortals. The fumes of this place would be dreadful for the mortal kind.
The strangeness of the stomach like depths weren't lost on him, it was clear this place had twisted into something dark and twisted from its origins, a great gut that never quite got around to digesting its prey. The insatiable hunger of greed, an ever starving maw.
Skittering sound catches his attention, Murmur's eyes snap up to the beams and he watches with head tilted like a curious bird, eyes sharp, unobstructed by the gloom of this dank cavern. Still, given the maze of mess it was hard to make out what it was that was following them, even if the dark weren't a hinderance. For perhaps the first time since they'd arrived Murmur dared actually look interested in whatever this mysterious creature skittering among the rafters was. A being so cherished that Greed approached it with caution and care, how novel! How terribly strange! The other acts were boring, expected displays of bravado and oil-slick charm, but this was something entirely different.
Murmur hangs back. He makes no move to lower himself to look smaller, still very aware he's a lone angel in the belly of the beast so to speak, but he also makes no effort to look intimidating. By nature he looks average, soft around the edges and unassuming and non-threatening, a trait he intends to lean on in this situation. When the creature finally does appear he only continues to watch silently, head remaining tilted in that oddly bird-like way, unable to disguise his fascination with this new revelation.
"Secrets upon secrets. Might I inquire as to which one this is?" Don't think he's not noticed the conversation, Greed, he's merely tucking the information away for later. Introductions first, interrogations later.
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"Bido, meet Mur. Mur, Bido," Greed slurs in, his voice once again a thick syrup in the back of his throat. "If you're looking for someone to get the job done quick, Bido's your guy. Isn't that right?" He playfully tilts his head to flash a sharkish grin and in the basement's crude dim of sunken reds and steam, his skin gives off a heated look. The shadows in his face carve deeper - the exit-sign halos tickle his cheeks. It's as if, no matter where he is, no matter where he wanders, that core of his eventually catches and spills out to places, things, people. In the end, he's a wildfire. One born to fume on and on despite anyone's attempts to put him out.
And as Bido weaves through his legs, his yellow-saucer eyes illuminating wide, it's clear the creature has been caught up in the blaze for some time.
"I, well. I'm pretty good at getting into spots most people can't," Bido stammers as one of his lizard(y) hands curls to anchor itself against Greed's thigh. "But I'm not as good as some of the others. I - " The creature blinks and his eyes throw off an otherworldly shimmer similar to a night-prowling cat caught in a flashlight. "-sorry, I didn't mean to go off like that, Mr. Murmur. What - what can I do to help?"
The Sin adjusts his stance to give Bido a little more room to move. "He needs your painting skills." He gestures downward with a crooked finger to point at the goat. "I'll get you the blood. I'm sorry to ask, and I know you don't like this kind of stuff, but you've got the steadiest hand in the joint." While Greed explains, Bido timidly examines the animal's corpse through the frame of the Sin's legs. He rubs his hands over each other - another nervous habit. "If you can get us a clean brush and a bucket, I'll get it ready. Sound fair?"
"S-Sure. Sure thing." Bido peels himself away from Greed to circle the goat. He watches it with an air of hesitation - his demeanor more similar to a child's first hunting experience. His entire body language is that of distaste. Distaste, but also resolution. The world they lived in was a cruel one, after all.
No doubt, he's seen worse.
After the thorough lookover, Bido briefly pads backwards onto his hands and feet to move up a half-leaning plank of wood. "Dolcetto and Roa dropped off something else earlier. Do you need me to bring that over too? It smelled like dirt." He addresses Murmur now, his wide eyes darting to avoid staring too long. "I - I can bring that over too while you work, Mr. Greed. I don't want to cause too much trouble."
The Sin's face falls at that and he clicks his tongue to correct it. "Oi, you're never a trouble, Bido. Don't sell yourself so short." He moves forward and bends; his whole body appearing to topple over itself and balance like a rock on small, jutting cliffside. "Besides, I wouldn't trust anyone else to get this job done." He gives the smaller man a soft wink and a show of teeth for good measure. "Just get back here when you can."
Visibly, Bido brightens and his thin, hooked-reptile claws tap excitedly atop the wood. "I will, Mr. Greed. Mr. Murmur! I'll be back." And with that, he's off. A single leap up has him part way into the ceiling. A scamper later, and Bido disappears back into the secondary set of systems making up the droptop of the basement.
The Sin watches him go before shrinking down into a crouch. "Thanks," he whispers. "-for being good with him." He flicks one of his nails out to run in backwards through the thick fur at the goat's throat. "Out of all of 'em, Bido's seen the worst of it. He used to be human once. But y'know how it goes: wrong place, wrong time, wrong people." Greed buries his voice in his chest, making it vibrate and twist into a deep, shuddering growl. "Things aren't fair, angel. I know that. But sometimes, I wish they were."
The tip of his claw severs something and a hunk of flabby, hide-slick skin peels away from the animal's neck. "As for that thing I mentioned earlier," he slicks the forks of his tongue over his lips. "That whole deal went south for a lot of reasons. But I also didn't expect Wrath to have a new host." He works as he talks - slicing there, peeling here, yet always careful not to nick or cut anything that could possibly make the carcass bleed out and thus leave them back at square one.
He rips off a heavy slab of skin and tosses it onto the floor with a juicy thwmp. "Might be easier if you don't know. Would rather you not have to deal with that mess." And there it is: his thank you, his admiration, his try. Because as much as Heaven and Hell like to play at war and turf, the abyss is constantly at odds. The bickering, the fighting, the clawing at the next, big power play. It's something his have always marched to. An obedient group of soldiers following blind to someone else's orders.
It's one of the reasons he left in the first place. And while that mess will always be there?
He's not interested in bringing in anyone else.
Greed shakes his wrist and another cigarette appears magically between his fingers. "Things really did get complicated today, didn't they? Ah, well."
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Now, while a steady hand wasn't strictly necessary a swift one was, and if Bido could get where the others couldn't more effectively then he was not one to complain about the choice in artists. Certainly Greed knew the strengths of his crew, and this time Murmur would trust his decision in the matter. After all, if Bido failed, then it was all of their heads.
He was not going to bring that up in the present delicate company. As it was he didn't need to offer a word in edge wise, instead only nodding when Bido asked if it was the dirt he needed. The dirt, and enough room to spread his wings, a commodity he wasn't expecting to be in such short supply and yet here they were. "Do you have somewhere with some space?" He asked while Bido was scampering away, clicking claws fading as he vanished.
Eyes that had been watching the creature's retreat dart down to regard Greed with a newfound curiosity. This tenderness was strange. "I may be cold, but I am not needlessly cruel." He can tell when he should best keep his mouth shut and curb the bitter edge of his ice. This being, Bido, had been through the wringer and was not built of the same durability as those who do not understand death. A quiet, amused yet rueful sound escaped him. "Thus is the cost of all this grey. Black and white have faded, their meanings obscured in the fog. What is wickedness for one is salvation for another. Fair, unfortunately, is very difficult to weigh." He isn't without sympathy, there is a kind of long deep sadness in his tone. Strange, given how very rarely even the barest hint of emotion might leak from his icy dam. Life wasn't fair, that didn't mean they couldn't be furious at the injustice of it all.
"Ah, and that is how you found yourself in such an unfortunate predicament, I expect?" He really must learn to be more careful. Greed picking and prodding at their paint medium did have him grinding his teeth just a little, but the demon seemed smart enough not to drain too much of it out onto the floor. It wouldn't do them any good there. "Like as not I am already in the thick of it. You might as well divulge, that I can further fortify your defenses." It's easier to know what to do if he knows what he's up against. Yes, he knows well the endless warring of Hell's against themselves, it's part of what keeps them in check. If they're too organized, too focused, then they might just be able to do more damage than even the Holy Host could prevent.
All part of the precarious balance all things were held in. The eternal battle between stagnation and entropy. The push and pull that kept them alive, and in check.
"Mm, fortunately I rather enjoy a good puzzle. Now then, the sooner we get this underway the sooner we may have a moment to breathe. As it were." He doesn't breathe.
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The Sin's lips split and his chest enlarges as he takes in a long, strong pull. "It's a long story. But if you really want to know and since you've obviously earned it - " He clicks, forcing the smoke out in spirals that seem to topple and trip themselves over and over. "- I left years ago. Couldn't tell you how long it's been exactly. It's been long enough though, and they're still not over it." Gingerly, he tests his knees by knocking them in opposite directions, making his hips spread and body lurch over the precarious balance of his heels. "You know how things are done there. No one can ever let anything go. And I'm not one to follow barking orders. So when the opportunity came, I didn't hesitate."
He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, drawing lines in the air with the smoke. "And now, here we are. The two of us avoiding people who would have us right back where they want us. Nothing ever really changes," Greed hums off as a series of lights snap on ahead of them like a silent signal. "Ah. Looks like that's our cue, handsome." The cigarette back in his gnarled-tooth jaw, Greed flattens his palms on the rounds of his thighs. A push later, and he's upright again; his body moving as rigid as a devil stiff from the sun.
The goat finds a home once again on his shoulder like a sack and the Sin leads on; his stance a casual sort of slick. "Normally, I'd ask for a story in return. But since you said I owed you, that's the first one you're getting. Nothing's free, after all." The careful moment with Bido now over, it doesn't take him long to slip right back into his usuals: the purr in his voice, the almost dance-like pace to his step. No, despite being shaken in more ways than one, it takes little to no time for the devil to find himself again. That shield of his all but coming up with a snide smile and a criminal's carefree demeanor.
Through missing-door arches and down widening halls, he goes. True to his word, Bido has lit a path for them, even if lit is a mild term at best. Barrels of liquor pile themselves high on either side of them as they pass; boxes and crates snuggle deep into the corners. Greed watches the bulbs above as they blink in and out of focus and takes a sharp left when another blearily pops off.
The room Bido has set up is probably the cleanest out of the bunch, and the largest. With the room mostly empty, save for a few more of Greed's odd-ball collection of crates, it seems to stretch out endlessly. The ceiling's higher, the floor's a little less smudged. Bido, himself, appears like a tiny lump in the mass of it all; his slouched body hovering about the light switch like a ghost playing a funny trick. When he sees the two of them enter, he quickly pulls himself away.
"I got everything ready, Mr. Murmur! A clean bucket just as you asked, a paint brush. I even have your dirt, right here." Giddily, the creature walks over to the requested items and points them out as if he's some sort of used car lot salesman trying to impress a rather high-rolling guest. In response, Greed gives a hearty laugh as he shrugs off the goat.
"Good job, Bido. Real good job. Knew I could count on you." The Sin stretches his back by moving his spine from side to side and a thick shell of ash shatters onto the floor. "Now, how do we get this started?"
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"The infernal are not exactly known for being particularly forgiving, no," There was a faint bit of wry humor in his tone at that. Slighting devils was never a particularly wise decision. No wonder Greed and his were skittish, though they should be far more worried about their own than Murmur. If he wanted to cause them trouble he would have simply left Greed to deal with the consequences of his carelessness. "Ah, don't be so cynical. You have thus far escaped their grasp, that is a change, subtle though it may be. Change is ever around us, one must simply learn how to observe it." Cheeky and sly as always, Murmur was happy to end the conversation there with their path forward illuminated by sickly light.
Appropriate, in a place like this. Where shadows and secrets dwelled far away from prying eyes. Little did Greed realize Murmur's were the most prying of them all. He just couldn't help himself, it was in his nature. "Nothing's free," He agrees, and in a way Greed was still racking up a bill. Rescued, babysat, his minions tolerated, and his headquarters hidden from sight? Murmur was doing a lot of work here he wouldn't do for just anyone. And now he was about to crack out the forbidden magic? Greed was going to owe him quite the debt indeed. He followed along those twists and turns, cramped corridors and low arches. This place really was sprawling, and with only one goat they'd have to be tactical with their work. Ideally Bido will understand the need once he explains the process further.
Ah, they did indeed pick him adequate space. Most excellent. "Exemplary work, Bido!" High praise from the angel, especially given some of that monotone of his actually shifted into something genuine. Now it was his time to shine. Murmur made his way toward the bucket, setting down the bowl of ash collected earlier nearby and standing again to begin rolling up his sleeves. This was perhaps the first hint that there was more to the angel than met the eye. While he went out of his way to appear as unimpressive in dress and visage as possible his arms were a different story.
Flowing intricate tattoos covered them, arcane symbols of all manner were woven in such dense intricacy it would take even the most seasoned scholar ages to begin to pick them apart. In the dim light the ink seemed to have an unearthly shimmer, sometimes silver, sometimes blood red when they caught the light just right. He motioned for Greed to approach. "Bleed the goat in there, every drop you possibly can. We'll need as much as we can get." The place really was far too large, after all. Once Greed moved to comply he'd begin his work, in equal parts he mixed in the dirt and ash, a pinch here and a handful there he worked the mixture with a paint stirrer he'd found along the way.
Working like this the icy countenance fell away, and a man possessed was revealed in his place. A mad scientist over his experiment, an expert alchemist and chemist both as he muttered incantations and wove his magic into the mixture. Nearing completion they required one final component, so rare as to be nigh impossible to extract... unless one happened to have the very source on hand. Gesturing for Greed to keep his distance Murmur straightened, great wings erupting from his back all at once and the reason for his insistence on space was clear - they were huge.
Easily twenty feet, if not more, from tip to tip with pale blue-gray feathers that glittered as if covered in a fine layer of frost. They were long and narrow like a gull, or more accurately like an albatross, a bird whose omens were all too fitting now in light of their present situation. The pristine feathers were unmarred save for a striking patch at each shoulder with mottled bloodstains marring the otherwise even coloration. The striking markings of a faction only known in whispers and conspiracies, Blood Angels. Greed wasn't the only one harboring secrets, after all.
Murmur was wholly consumed by his work, and unwilling to comment on anything about his wings. Delicately he searched through his feathers, one by one plucking out small ones to crumble into the mixture. As he did so it began to take on a shimmer not unlike the frosty sheen that adorned him. Either unaware or unwilling to acknowledge there might be questions from his witnesses, Murmur went on with his explanation. "Bido, when I am finished with this I will need you to paint a stripe of this above every window and door that opens to the outside of this building. You may have to be sparing, I know not how many exist. Are you able to complete this task?"
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The Sin's outline goes out of focus and in his silence, Bido frantically moves into position. "Y-Yes. Yes, Mr. Murmur! I - I can do that for you, don't .. don't even worry about it." The creature's small body, for a second, hesitates. Trapped between all the awe that is Murmur (his encompassing presence, how his wings fill up every inch of space they can take, the way his feathers are clean yet bitter and chill) and his boss who, by all other accounts, creeps on the outer ring like a coming eclipse, he's no match for the storm. This is beyond him, beyond any of them. It's old meeting of older friends, of enemies, of a word no mortal truly knows.
Bido's scampering hands grab the bucket and with a fresh paint brush at the ready, he shuffles briskly toward the door. As if any moment, this meeting of two, opposite currents could burst. Bringing them and the whole house down in a magnificent and beautiful explosion.
"Boss," Bido whispers at the doorframe leading out to the hallway. "Boss - ?"
The cloud where Greed had once been thunders red, orange. "I'm fine, Bido. Go on, do what our friend here says, would you?" The Sin's voice echoes somewhere far, yet oh so near. It drowns itself in the crackling cloud like lightning rumbling on the horizon; an electrified sound, hot and broiling. And maybe it's just because Murmur's being so honest, but something about it: the brooding is like an answer. A call to an echo long gone, hissing back:
"You rang?"
The hallway bulbs flutter, and Bido violently shocks himself back into the present, his saucer(ed) eyes blinking themselves out of a stupor. "R-Right! I'm on it! You can count on me, Mr. Murmur. Just," his nails tickle the handle of the bucket. "-please be careful." And with that, he's gone. Lost to the building's catacombs to begin his long, agonizing work.
"He's never seen something like you before. Gotta say, I'm impressed," Greed's voice creeps from behind Murmur despite their distance. "Sorry, didn't want either of you to see how ugly I could get. But whatever you're doing, well. Seemed only fair." Eyes open in the dark, pupils gone and blaring. They eat at the fumes of sulfur and smoke like flares - their heat burning through only to relight the smog yet again in a vicious cycle. The Sin exhales low through a mouth that sounds laborious. "Looks like both of us are just full of surprises tonight."
Snakes of soot clamber to the door where Bido had once been and strangle it. "I am sorry." His tone manages to be both snide and sincere. Another contradiction. "Once this is done, it's your choice. Whatever you want." Movement stirs inside his cocoon and the Sin finally moves, forcing part of the curtain to pull back and fray along his ankles.
His boots are gone now, replaced by crooked feet and talons best serving a lizard from millennia ago. A single, elongated toe raps softly against the concrete and as it centers itself, the claw at the tip gauges deep into the rock. Despite how stretching his swill seems to go, it appears to avoid Murmur and his work entirely. Instead, it lingers on the edges of all the goings-on; its presence, an audience of sorts. One hovering, keeping its distance, but itching on the edge of its seat.
Blood Angels. Princes of Hell. Oh, what a pair they make.
Greed's claw scratches something into the concrete; the symbol, a rough mess of sketches. "I'm a man of my word, handsome. You do us a favor, and I - " A chain rattles softly nearby and light swings in his shadow - its body swimming in a sea of black, blinding fog. "From mine. From me. Keep your secrets. I owe you that much."
Because he knows, at least he can guess, the cost. The cost of this, the cost of revealing. It's a hefty price to pay. And if he's blind to Murmur? If he can be jumped by him at any time?
So be it. Fair is fair, after all.
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He didn't say anything about the exchange between Bido and Greed, only cocked his head to the side in faint curiosity at Bido's words of warning. Offering a polite nod, he flicked his wings once, even that gentle force kicking up dust and ash all around them as he tucked them neatly against his back. For being so large, they did fold nicely. Now, with Bido scampering off to perform his duty he turned his attention to Greed, letting out a faint rueful huff of amusement. "I was there during the first war between Heaven and Hell, I have born witness to horrors far beyond you, Greed." He's hardly so delicate that he'd be intimidated by Greed going as smoldering as he possibly can.
Again his head tilts to the side, birdlike in its puzzlement while somehow still carrying the weight of eons. "Why are you apologizing? What are you offering? Be clear." As for the secrets, he nods curtly. "I will accept that much, at the very least. They may not take the news as well. But you understand there is more in Heaven, Hell, and Earth than black and white, do you not? You are among those who have forsaken one duty to carry the mantle of another.
The stray thought, for that was what it was, earned something of a light chuckle from the angel. A tinkling sound like crackling ice in the early rising sun, musical and alien all at the same time. "If I wanted to bring harm to you, then I simply would have let it happen." He's cheating but that's also what his kind does, isn't it? Stare into the heart of sin and remain untarnished? Listening to all those deepest darkest thoughts? This one, however, does not recoil. Bathed in blood, they are not so easily flustered.
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Greed's jaw cracks open. "A ward for a ward. Mine won't be able to find you, and neither will I. I'd say that's a fair deal." His hand appears out of the mess of soot, bringing with it trails and dust like fingers through a broken hourglass. With his claws splayed out and his hand gripping the air, he takes on the look of a shadow. Of a phantom appearing out of a fallout, offering an option.
The Sin violently snaps his wrist and the mark on the floor screams off the concrete in flecking embers and shrill noise. All the souls he's taken; all the souls he's marked. They answer to his call: in anguish, in need, in a desire to please. Greed rotates his hand to summon the symbol back up to his face. And as its red glow bleeds into his smoke screen, his eyes blare back. "This won't hurt you, but it might feel a bit weird. Hold still."
A flick of his arm later, and whatever he's conjured up ejects from his control. It slides across the room with screams, with laughter, with all the horror, all the bad, and all the good that he is. When it arrives to Murmur, it shrinks back down again. The electricity arching wildly about calms down to a static; the light dims down to small sparks and sputters.
Slowly, Greed pulls his arm back into his nest. "Once you grab it, it's done. Envy, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, Pride, Wrath. They won't be able to track you, no matter how close they may get. And neither will I. Call it whatever you want, but you've now got the upper hand." The devil shifts, his low laughter forcing his self-made swill to expand and clap back against him like a rubberband. "Can't say I like it, but them's the breaks, isn't it? Ha - ! You are such a fucking pissant. Who'd have thought we'd be here, like this?"
He waves his hand to shoo away whatever it is that's on his mind. "I'm sure you've seen plenty. Still doesn't change anything I said." His raptor(ed) toe plucks itself from the concrete to retreat back again. "I'd rather you keep me as a handsome memory. Give me that, won't you?"
Footsteps far up above shake the ceiling a bit, making a few loose splinters tumble down, down, down. Greed slinks forward to inspect it. "Sounds like Bido's doing double time tonight. I'll make sure he gets your regards."
Because, as the angel said himself, they're on a time schedule. No doubt, Murmur will go on his own way once everything is said and done. Angels didn't belong in a place like this; least of all one who exposed himself, gave himself, and exhausted himself for a rotting palace of monsters and devils alike. Besides, Murmur is on the run and his consequences? They're a bit more dire than his, aren't they? And if the rumors are true -
Greed's quiet for a long while; too long. Until: "I've got enough left in me if you want a clean exit."
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At first he was going to refuse the offer, a ward that hid him only from Greed and his wouldn't be particularly useful, but to hide him from all the Sins? Well... how could he refuse such a gift? A powerful weapon in a war he'd planted himself firmly in the middle of, whether he liked it or not. All because he just couldn't stop himself from a little rebellion, a little chaos, and most of all... a little justice. Besides, this was a treat precisely up his alley. A sigil to hide him from sight? Exactly his wheelhouse. "Now, now, this hardly means you'll be rid of me," He mused, tone laced with amusement as he reached out to accept the offering. Greed might find it a risk, and it would be were he the type to double cross, but Murmur was most of all loyal.
He just didn't like to tell anyone that.
A breath of chilled air leaves him as the sigil takes hold, leaving him frozen for a moment while he works the thing into his own wards and sigils. Another layer of protection can never go astray. "I shall pretend I've not seen you at your worst, then," His tone quiet, though still amused. "Not that I find it particularly offensive." That's damn near a compliment from him, all things considered.
Once everything had settled and the strange moment had passed he shook himself out, feathers fluffing up as he did so.
"I think I'd rather have a cup of tea. That is, if you're not opposed to harboring a felon for a time?" It would give him a chance to make sure the wards were all firmly in place before any pursuers came their way. If everything worked out as planned, then this place was one of the safest from the holy host one could hope for.
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With no need to hold up any sort of pretenses, he lets it all down. The ash falls; the cloud drops and scatters as quickly as rats in the drain. And in the center of it all? He's there. The living embodiment of avarice, twisted yet still similar enough that it couldn't be anyone else. The ring hovering about his head thorns itself with three, distinct spikes and while they circle each other in a haze of blackened and tarnished gold, the Sin's fanged mouth quirks.
"And here I thought it'd be easy to get rid of you. Proved me wrong again, handsome." Greed tilts his head, the weight of his horns half sagging him to the side. "You really are a pain in my ass, y'know that?" Where there had been vicious humor before, he's softer now. His defenses down and all of him out in the open, there's little to hide anymore. They've got all their cards out on the table: Murmur with his secrets, him with his.
And Lord, Lord, if this whole night isn't full of surprises.
The Sin's split eyes wander to the ceiling again and the lights throughout the basement immediately flick on to settle into their usual low dim. Greed pensively presses his tongue at the backsides of his elongated teeth. "When you put it that way, I'm sure we can work something out," he starts in and that smile of his speaks so much more volumes. It's sinister and slick; coy, yet thoughtful. Felony's just part of him, isn't it? And good friends, true friends, are always thicker than thieves.
Greed shifts, pockets his hands, and sinks comfortably into his shoulders. "I'll have to ask Roa about the tea. Not really my specialty." He waves sleepily at the air to usher away a few bits of soot. "As long as you don't mind being around them a bit longer, I can make something work. Can't promise some of 'em won't bother you through the night, though." The red lines carved into his face sweat gold only to fizzle out in the crooks and cracks of his horns.
"But I've got a spare room down the hall from mine. Third floor, convenient window, second best view in the place," Greed's feet shift while he walks. Talons first, bare feet next, then back to boots again. It will take a bit longer for the rest of him to settle, sure enough. However, the minor conveniences? Well, it's enough for now.
He saunters to the door frame and checks it. "Well shit, Bido does like you," he starts in with a whistle. Sure enough, the frame's been covered just as Murmur asked. As have every other possible entrance down in the basement.
"I'm sure he's waiting for you. Let's head up stairs and get you that drink."
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After giving himself a thorough shake to remove any stray soot from his feathers Murmur dismisses the wings unto wherever it is they hide when he's not showing off. The whole pack didn't need to know his secrets just yet, they still hadn't been tested. After ensuring his tattoos were back in hiding and he looked proper enough he'd turn to follow Greed back down the cluttered dim hallways. "I've told you to stop making assumptions about me, haven't I?" He chided, tone sing-song as he did, an amused lilt replacing his usual monotone. There was a reason he'd been so insistent, and that reason would persist despite Greed's best efforts. Blood angels were known to be unpredictable, and even cool-tempered Murmur was no exception.
"You would have me no other way."
It was just their dynamic. Greed needed someone to pull him out of trouble when he got in too deep, deeper than his cohorts could reach. In return he'd be frustrated and annoyed, because angels were just like that. Ever the light within the dark, for without one how could someone recognize the other? "I think it is more likely they who will be disturbed by my presence than the other way around." Demons didn't bother him, he'd met far more despicable beings than the lot Greed had drummed up. "Perhaps now that the imminent threat is tempered your pup will be calmer." Smarter? No, probably not, but perhaps less obnoxious.
He ponders the offered accommodations a moment. "Does the window open?" If so, it would be a very convenient perch. He could hop in and out at his leisure, no need for fancy hell gate doors. Trailing along behind, he also stops to inspect Bido's work, nodding in approval. He followed the directions well, that should buy them some time and give Murmur the breathing room to reinforce these wards with something a little more durable. "You think so? I simply assumed he was as interested in safeguarding his home as the rest." Offering a nod he pulls away from his inspection to return to following. Tea does sound lovely right about now.
➥ Closed to @ albatrossomen | here's your fucking money
By the time night rolls around, most of the patrons have either shuffled away on their own or have been coerced into doing so (namely through Roa's heavy hand), leaving the establishment quiet into the lull of the morning. Shrunk candles and lazy smoke sag sleepily in the dim; their wind down, a perfect match for the welcome silence. Yet, isn't it true?
There's always a calm before the storm.
Despite all of their attempts, it was only a matter of time before someone (or something) came knocking. It starts with a simple hush: the candles go out with a sudden breeze, the electricity hums and vibrates.
And that is when everything goes south, south, south.
The door to the front blows wide, sending bottles and glasses alike smearing like wet paint across a wall. Because what's on the other side aren't their usual guests, oh no. There's a group of them. A group of them with scowling looks and enough distaste and disregard that it's all too obvious that they aren't here for anything good. While most of the group appears to be in somewhat of an order (the way they similarly scan the building with a cool sense of superiority), the smallest stands out like a sore thumb. They're slim, slimy; a tiny thing with long, spiked-black hair and a ghastly expression that's sourly bitter.
Because out of all the Sins, isn't it just Envy to be so, so rotten.
When the fight breaks out, it's messy. Feathers and tar, fire and smoke: they fill up the space in a blackening cloud, swallowing up everything and smudging the insides as angels and devils alike claw in a clash. Some people try to make an escape when one of the angels cuts them off with a gouging slice, leaving the head of the party split from the stomach upward. Bido (who had been near the front) starts to scramble away. Butt first and terror in his eyes, he shuffles blindly through the blood and gore. Bits of what had been a person stain his hands, and as the angel makes for him, the small creature swallows deafly at his own, coming demise.
He doesn't expect it when the angel falls face first onto the floor.
"Just who the fuck do you think you're messing with?"
Greed's voice rolls out, ushering in a thick tornado of soot. With one foot on the angel's back, his body leers out of the dark. Giant horns peel from his skull to grind at the hallway entrance, causing the wood to splinter like bite marks. The angel makes a noise into the floor, but as they try to stand, the Sin presses harder into its back; his raptor(ed) toes digging, just digging, to find a bit of flesh.
"Sorry, I don't think I caught that - " Greed's mouth hardly opens when he talks. Instead, his teeth grind together, causing wafts of ash to foam over his gums. "What, did you think I wouldn't notice? You do know who I am, right?" Mountains of gold pillow under his foot only to grow, wither, and melt like flowers in a sped-up drought. They meet the constant stream of spit running from his mouth and forehead in a flurry of pops and hisses. For that crown of his is a molten one. A thing of desire spiling out, stretching further, to burn everything it touches.
Avarice is all consuming, hungry, and corrosive. It shouldn't be surprising that it's true namesake is the same.
Another pile of coins erupts on the angel's back, withers, and seers into its flesh. Greed leans in closer.
"Where's Envy?"
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Tonight, however, something had kept him away when the fight first broke out.
Bar fights weren't uncommon, so much so that by now the angel had grown accustomed to ignoring the cacophony whenever it sprung up. The demons would deal with it handily and things would go back to their usual murmur of noise. At first he'd thought it was just that, right up until the scent of brimstone and charred feathers caught his nostrils.
A blast of frigid air cutting through the heady gloom announced his presence before he appeared, eyes black as they took in the carnage. He moved too calmly, too certain through the chaos to be picked out easily until it was too late for one of the attacking angels who only had enough time to let out a gutteral scream before hitting the floor sans heart. Another, responding to his brother's call found himself slammed across the room first by a massive wing used in lieu of a fist, then pinned under an unforgiving spike of ice. Murmur would always argue he was no warrior, and yet in a moment like this he was as cold and certain as an executioner's axe.
"What is the meaning of this?" He boomed, a voice resonant like thunder, that shook the very foundations of the building. If nothing else he hoped to spook the others away from their onslaught. Make it easier to chase down the responsible party.
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Still, Greed's eyes don't leave the angel he has pinned beneath his claws despite the storm calling him back. No, instead his smile stretches itself fast over his face, yanking what little give he has left. "Looks like my little shit heel of a sibling decided rubbing elbows with some of yours was worth the trouble," he hisses and a wad of spit bubbles from his gums. It squeezes through his teeth, low and slow; the look of it similar to a volcano drooling its lead. When the head of it finally finds the angel's back, it instantly causes the flesh to angrily blister. Red boils, white scorches, and the skin rises in milky, filmy pustules only to inflate, strain, and burst with all their weight in gold.
And oh, how ugly Sin could be when scored.
Greed breathes and a funnel of ash shoos from his throat. "Ha - ! Guess we can be friends after all, handsome. If your lot is willing to fuck around with mine just to get me." His claws sink in deeper to find what he's been desperately searching for. "Hold that thought."
He's not going to ask for permission this time; his core won't let him. Not when he has so much to pay back, not when the angel below him (bleeding, silent, yet still too egotistical to let it show) is just where he wants him. Greed's toes flex and as the bones in his talons wriggle and bury themselves into muscle, a realization sparks in his prisoner's face.
Clipped birds don't sing. And angels? Ah, well -
"Wait - ! Wait - !"
The Sin's eyes twitch, something internally crunches. And when the ash clears, the angel is no more. Greed slides his toes out from a whimpering husk - his feet, his ankles, all but baptized in his cruel foot bath. He smears the floorboards with the leftovers. "Mine, Mur - get them out of here. If you can do that, I'll let you decide what happens to the rest."
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Pathetic.
He sniffed, lip curling in disdain at the miserable display. If they were going to be courageous enough to play at betrayal, they could at least maintain some level of dignity in their final moments. Really, if you were going to fall, you should commit fully. At Greed's request he glanced up, holding his wings higher as he prepared to depart to do just that. "Do as you will. They have made their choice, and thus the consequences they have chosen shall fall."
And with that he was gone, a gust of frigid wind in his wake.
There was one place Murmur knew would prevent angels from hunting them, consecrated ground. It would be unpleasant for the devils to hunker down there, but it would be unspeakable for an angel to perform an act of violence on such ground. So long as they were there, they were safe. Bido would be the easiest to convince, others less so, but Murmur was persuasive and when he wasn't persuasive enough he wasn't against an old-fashioned scruffing. Granted, that wouldn't do him much good whenever one of the angels did catch up with them first.
It was Roa and Dol who proved the hardest to track down, for Murmur anyway... Their pursuer on the other hand had less trouble. And was, unfortunately, more cunning than his brothers had been. He waited until after Murmur had shown himself to try to persuade the two to rendezvous at the church where he was hiding the others before appearing, forcing Murmur on the defensive rather than able to attack from the shadows. Once they were cornered they were set upon, and their attacker was quick to call in reinforcements.
Murmur would never claim to be a warrior, but he wasn't one to surrender so easily when his back was against a wall. Using his wings as a shield he stood between the demons and their would be executioners. "Flee this place, now." He hissed at the two, calling upon his ice magics to help shield against the other angel's attacks. Of course when they refused to flee in a timely manner Murmur sighed, resigning himself to the inconvenience. The little patches of bloody feathers at his shoulders had been a hint, but they hadn't been the whole story.
In a blaze of holy light that swiftly turned a sickened red he relinquished that carefully cultivated veneer of control, releasing the bloodlust that boiled just beneath the surface of all Blood Angels. The leader and his subordinates hesitated, if only for a moment, at the dripping eye-filled rings of halo and blood drenched feathers that greeted them. A moment of hesitation they wouldn't repeat as Murmur punished them severely with a blast of blood-ice shards razor sharp and vicious.
The battle that ensued was vicious, yet even bolstered as he was by a blind rage he was still one angel against three, and a magician at that. The warriors weathered his magic well, but he did not weather their spears and swords as gently. He'd managed to trick one into impaling himself on a pillar of ice by feigning a fall but still took a spear to the gut for his efforts. He tore the wing off another, an act particularly cruel given that he had only brutality behind him to perform the feat. By that time the one remaining decided this fight wasn't worth the life of three angels, collecting his hobbled comrade and absconding. The night was won, though they'd not be so careless of Greed's trump card angel next time.
When they were gone and the threat passed the rage fell, leaving Murmur to deal with his injuries and exhaustion on his own. This was... more exhausting than he'd be willing to admit. Fortunately he didn't have to, because collapsing did that job for him.
It's cool guys just drag him out of the puddles if you would it's very undignified.
PHEW SORRY FOR THE DELAY ..
The door to the church wheezes open, revealing the cold fog of a coming morning. Soft blues chase at the wood frame; a thick haze teases at the entrance. The Sin's hand wraps around the door and as his black-charcoal fingers choke the wood, a hint of his heat follows. A spark traces out the entrance, eating at anything holy and chasing it away with shy puffs of smoke. It's a small thing, really. A way to both make himself known and to ensure there wouldn't be any other unpleasant surprise for the day.
Greed inhales and his vicious 'Shield evaporates, leaving him with his usual face and usual look, save for a light, faint haze of soot that hovers off his skin like dust. He doesn't say anything as he passes by the rows and rows of pews. Instead, his heels fill the silence - their clacks and clicks shooting off and echoing as brittle as bullets in a chamber.
Foul. Bitter. That's how he feels, counting who remained, who was visibly missing, and who had barely made it at all. The Sin's face goes stiff and cold in the church's sleepy-dawn hush. Even Murmur, someone they all considered practically untouchable, had taken his own toll in the fight. It had been minor of course, but considering how the angel seemed out to the entire world even now. Well.
Ffffz, and a cigarette starts to blaze tiredly on his lip. "Doc, start helping out the rest of 'em. Bido," Greed raises his finger off his hip to gesture and cut the air like a hot, burning knife. "-need you to tap your usual channels. See if the Coven has a few things we can use."
Knocked out by the shock of it all (be it from Greed's appearance or the sudden switch to the usual status quo), Bido instantly jumps to the task. He fumbles a small notebook from the insides of his shredded, burnt-edge cloak, his thin claws flipping pages until he finally finds a blank spot. "What should I ask them for? Mr. Greed..?"
The Sin chews angrily on his smoke, shifting it to the left side of his jaw with a sputtering huff of fire in his cheek. "Seven crossroad nails, three dove tails, and the head of a rattlesnake. Tell them I sent you. If they get you what I need right then and there, their debt's paid. Now go," he pauses and his eyes throb behind his sunglasses. "And watch yourself, Bido. Use all the tricks you have. I don't want anyone damaging any more of my things."
While the pep talk may be lacking by normal means, it causes Bido to brighten just a bit. He nods and in an instant, he's gone again. Crawling away, disappearing into the shadows. Greed lifts his chin and as the Doc of the group gets to work, he slowly bends over to check on Murmur. One hand out, he gently places his knuckles to the angel's cheek.
"Hope you're still with me, handsome. Because we have some unfinished business I think you'll be interested in."
<3
Thankfully Roa and Dol had been kind enough to drag Murmur with them after the altercation and didn't leave him out in the street to be found by someone less savory. He was still out of it by the time Greed arrived, though far less from his injuries and far more from his inability to tolerate the Rage. It was something he fought so hard to suppress, was it any wonder when he did have to use it it took so much out of him? Still, one angel against three were fairly impressive odds considering he'd driven them back unarmed and largely unprepared.
When Greed touched him he twitched, a pulse of energy radiating from him both subtle and undeniable. A quiet dread and rapture alike, warning and welcome, before subsiding back into silence. Murmur was there he was simply recuperating. A few moments longer and he finally managed to crack one eye open, the final dregs of the bloodrage draining from it as he grunted in annoyance. "Wouldn't happen to have brought me a tea, would you?"
Yep, he's fine, even if he is a bit groggy still.
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When his fingers finally snap together, something porcelain and fragile shivers delicately between his boots. The cup and saucer he's conjured up aren't his usual, nor do they appear to be anything remotely modern. Blue designs wash themselves against the white; a faint lick of gold lines the lips of both. They match in a way that's purposeful - as if someone long ago had poured their very soul into them to make the perfect pair.
Greed gingerly pushes the steaming drink forward, his pinkie idly yanking at the teabag as softly as a fish trying at a bit of bait. "Sorry if it isn't exactly what you're used to. Not really my specialty."
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Human weapons he could shrug off like they were nothing, even demon arms were more nuisance than menace, but angel blades were designed to kill not only demons but their own brethren. It's who they first went to war with, after all. You see this is exactly why he usually doesn't stick around for fights. After his momentary distraction due to still bleeding he refocuses on Greed and the tea. Well, one couldn't argue he didn't at least have style. Flavor may be a different story.
Gingerly he reached out to accept the offering, granting Greed a wry smile. "I am not especially picky, it should be sufficient. My thanks." That'll hit the spot. "Did everyone make it out?"
SORRY FOR THE DELAY
"Don't worry about it," he says, lowly. "For now, need you to take care of yourself, hmn?" Greed tongues the filter of his smoke to drag in a fresh breath of ash. Ash. That's where some of them went. Burned to dust and scattered only to be lost to neither Heaven nor Hell, but to the void in between. A nothing, an emptiness.
The Sin stretches his legs and as the tendons snap and crunch, he casts a look over the pews. Dolcetto and Roa, over at the old-wood confessional, cleaning their cuts and slices with fresh brandy. Martel tending to Bido in the most comforting way she can. Bido and his visible tremors making his hood quiver in the gloom. Greed's jaw sets and threatens the filter of his cigarette, making the paper and tobacco floss brisk between his teeth.
He pops something against the inside of his cheek and a peel of lemon sleepily unfurls around his knuckles; the look of it like a snake, hatching from a shell. "Just in case you need it," he slurs before gingerly pinching the curl at the rim of Murmur's cup.
No worries! Likewise tbh I'm in crochet hell
"It is for prudence that I ask, while they are unlikely to attack us in this place, it is best to know where we stand." He echoes that frown, taking Greed's silence to mean that of those not scattered about the temporary safe zone, it was unlikely they'd be returning. His gaze followed Greed's, they were in a sorry state, likely the Nest wouldn't survive another surprise assault. Not like this. "Tell me, did they happen to collect that fallen wing in their retreat?"
A strange, macabre request perhaps but Murmur had a reason for it. He always did, after all, and removing the wing while allowing its owner to escape with their life had been a calculated maneuver. Allowing himself a momentary distraction he accepted the lemon, plopping it with grace into his tea. "My gratitude," He does, in fact, like the flavor.
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Greed inhales, eating away half of his cigarette. "Know me too well, don't you?" Purring, he breathes his words into life in a rush of air through his nose. "Doc's got it in the safest place in the world." The Sin cants his head, causing the rest of his body to tip and teeter like a dancer drunk on applause. "Figured it'd be a good spot. Besides, it gives me an excuse to give our good ol' friends upstairs a message in return for the shit they pulled tonight."
He slinks back and as his heels rap-rap-rap across the church floor, the Sin takes the lead. He weaves away from the pews and up to the ceremonial platform; his legs and torso maneuvering between wreckage and stockpiles alike more similar to a vulture plucking its way through a funeral's buffet.
It's only when he gets to the confessional, does he pause. What had probably been a pristine structure once has quietly transformed over the night. The wood's been smeared in oil - a dump of ashtrays, matchboxes, and cash from the bar litters the carpet. Greed takes it all in with a lopsided grin; his eyes reignited to a gassy purple-pink.
He strikes the back of his teeth with his tongue. "Welcome to our little congregation handsome. Let me show you around - " He starts and with a gentle lift of his wrist, the curtain to the confessional pulls away, revealing the severed wing. Someone, at some point, had taken the time to carefully wrap it. Red-silk curtains from the bar's private rooms loop around the feathers, leaving it cushioned, yet stable for transport.
The Sin shuffles to one side of the tight space to leave Murmur enough room to enter. "Thought it might be worth saving," he pinches his cigarette from the tip to snuff it between his fingers. "Guess they weren't wrong, huh?"
Greed leans forward, his lips pursed. For a while, he just stares at it - all the feathers left without an owner, how much space it fills. There's worth there, and he knows it. It calls to him like blood to a shark. The price of it, the power of it, the sheer unfathomable possibilities.
Yet -
The cigarette butt finds the confessional's floor and the Sin eases back and away into a sluggish slouch. "Equivalent exchange," he remarks, absently. "For what you did back there. It's yours."
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That was all part of Murmur's calculated plan.
Sipping his tea he moved to follow, curious how Greed would define the "safest place" possible for such a thing. Of course, he quickly regretted wondering and had to shake his head at the sight of such a defiled confessional. Not that he had any particular attachment to the practice, the ways of mortals were not the ways of angels after all. How they decided to repent was up to them... even so, this church was one he did not want the demons getting too comfortable in. It was still consecrated ground, after all, and that was the very thing protecting them right now. Angels would not perform violence here, it would be unsavory to them.
For now even they were granted sanctuary in such a place.
"I expected they might," He looked pleased, brushing past the Sin to inspect his prize. He did raise an eyebrow at all the pomp and show of gifting it to him, and couldn't help the faint exasperation that escaped him. It belonged to him by right of battle, but that was hardly the part he was exasperated by. "You really must stop underestimating me, Avarice." Now he's using the name to express his disappointment. "This," He reached out and tweaked a feather, and for the briefest moment a flash of a most predatory grin crossed his features. "Is bait. I have already laid the groundwork. Three cast from their earthly vessels, three failing to tear down a tarnished traitor, and one to lose a wing in the process. Not only have we cost them grave injury, but more than that they have been humiliated. This one will stop at nothing to have his wing returned, lest he be disgraced for eternity."
There was a triumph there, subtle and yet as sharp as any of his blades of ice. As though victory could be claimed already in a battle not yet even fought. "With this, you have an avenue for revenge. Moreover you have an avenue for information, which is far more valuable now as forces align against you. We have but to lay the trap."
Murmur planned it all out. As soon as the attack happened every step had been calculated, every angel taken down, every angel allowed to escape, and even his own injury had all been moves in a greater game. Greed was lucky this one was on his side.
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Greed arches an eyebrow and as it breaks over the rims of his shades, the look on his face is uncanny. It's sick with desire; fumed with want. But it isn't for his usual. Gold, riches, women, company, sex - no, those couldn't hold a candle to what he truly desires. That need, no that right for pure, raw vengeance; it grips at him like a snare. The corner of his mouth shrinks and his teeth crack open, inviting and welcoming the butt end of his cigarette as smoothly as a signature to paper.
When his thumb ignites again, the flame shimmers to a rich, fat-bellied gold. "Sounds like you've got this all planned out," he swirls his tongue to release a spiral of fresh smoke. "-knew I shouldn't underestimate you. It's pretty impressive." He ashes a bit onto the floor and carefully smooths out any hot coals with the heel of his boot. "Made a few calls of my own. The Coven - " Trilling, the Sin lifts a hand into the air to twirl at a strand of soot until it condenses and reshapes itself into something of a curvy figure. "-Bido's making sure they take care of the rest. By tonight, the 'Nest'll be back in working order. Just might be harder for some of my infrequent visitors to find the place for a while. You still got the thing I gave you?"
The matchbox: a one-way ticket. Greed fumbles through his pockets to pull one out. "If not, I got one of these left for the time being. Call it a precaution." He pushes the side with his thumb to check the contents and a couple of measly sticks rattle and roll into a corner. "Don't have a lot left, so you'll have to hold off until then. In the meantime, I have my own to deal with."
Because heavenly bodies weren't the only ones working tonight, oh no. They had help. Help from deep below in a crooked shape and a vile face that he knew all too well.
The devil sharpens his teeth on the filter of his cigarette, making the paper wheeze like a lung, blackened by disease. "Never been one to pass on a discount myself. And what's better than two for the price of one? Besides - " Red brands behind his sunglasses, burning into the glass and pulsing as sure as a wildfire raging deep in a wooded pit. "-I think it's about time little Envy got their dues."
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"Still working out some of the details," Murmur continued, moving to find himself a clear spot on the pew to rest and sip his tea, apparently unbothered by the severed limb in his company. He gestured for Greed to join him, they'd not had a moment to truly sit and discuss much of anything, much less tactics. At the question he reached into one of the many inner pockets in his thick coat, drawing out the box of so far unused matches to rattle it at the Sin. He'll be fine, and if need be he's sure he could collect a few more.
Before Greed could leave him so quickly again he chimed in: "I have a request."
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Avarice is the loaner quick on the heels whenever jealousy overextends its reach.
Greed tosses his cigarette into a ceremonial goblet as he follows Murmur's lead, leaving the idea to simmer for a later time. "Not exactly a clean night, so I don't expect results right away," he starts in while his body falls into an empty spot on the pew. With no regard to the sanctimony of things, he lets his legs and arms sprawl. He hooks his heels up and across the back of the pews and the rest of him sags to fill up the space. His whole demeanor still casual, cool.
"Oh-?" He cocks his head slightly to the side. "And here I thought you'd never take me up on an offer. Well, shit - " The Sin pops his lips, causing something hot to stir in his cheek. "Name it. Whatever you want," he begins before cutting himself off with a wave. "-no strings attached. Devil's honor."
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Again an eyebrow rose, the faintest hint of a smirk briefly touching his features, more tooth than necessary and with an air that he expects Greed will soon come to dislike what it is he wishes to request. "It is not for me," Of course not, it never is. "The angel. I would prefer it if you did not slaughter him. While he has transgressed against you remember that they act on orders and little else. Doubtful he even understands the web he's fallen into. Being forcefully evicted from one's Earthly body is agony enough, but outright destruction is..." He looks distant for a moment, maybe even pained, but it's brief and Murmur is a master of keeping his facial features under control.
"Their numbers only dwindle. There is only one method by which angels come into existence and a new one has not been created in millennia. Your display of mercy will not go unnoticed."
He may be an exile, but he still carries the weight of duty even if it seems counter intuitive.
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But for how quickly that serious tone comes, it's gone; in a flash of teeth, in a too-wide grin that gapes, stretches, and promises to one day, oh one day, swallow the world and everything in it. The Sin's eyebrows touch ever-so-slightly together; his face, a picture-perfect vision of eagerness. "Somehow, I thought that'd be the case - you really push a hard bargain, friend." His tongue lashes, splitting and reforming together again like magnetic glue.
However, his expression drops. Vengeance, payback: it's a thin line for him to walk. Because Murmur isn't wrong. The angel has already been stripped to its core; reduced and smothered, a punishment worse than anything he could possibly give. Still, that core of his twists and writhes. It pushes up his throat, making his jaw set and his eyes wander, as if looking for an answer. "It's a waste. I get it. Still," a heat rises off his finger as it turns crooked and sharp, making the wood of the pew hiss in a smoke. "-no one takes what's mine, Angel. I hope, for his sake, he remembers that."
Greed yanks his heels down, causing them to smack hard against the church's stony floor. "I'll make sure he doesn't die, but I can't promise anything else." Meaning, well, anything. Because isn't it true? A pound of flesh is a drop in the bucket.
And greed, ah greed: how it always calls for more.
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"I never do things by halves, you should know that by now." He responded in kind with an echoed smirk, much diluted compared to Greed's all-consuming grin. It was a difficult request, but an important one all the same. He had a feeling Greed would come to see it his way. "Your actions will be remembered, of that I can promise you. For angels, mercy is not weakness it is divine. They will know the threat for what it is, that you had every right to take back what was taken from you and then some. In light of that siding with any of your brethren again will be unlikely."
Murmur gestured dismissively, he wasn't asking Greed to be gentle by any means. "Do as you will, it will be a valuable lesson in vetting allegiances. Besides, at the end of this your reward will be much more delectable than one plucked pigeon." Greed could do whatever he wanted to Envy, especially once his Heavenly envoy had been dispersed.
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On the one hand, killing would be a waste, sure enough. On the other hand, he deserved something. Retribution: a tax, a payment with interest, and if Heaven wasn't about to pay the fee, well.
A series of holes begin to pit under the point of his boot; their formation, sluggish and pickled in rot. Greed's shoulders stiffen. "A valuable lesson - is that it?" A drop of wet falls form his mouth and sizzles gold onto the concrete. "You really are a pain, you know. But fine - it's a deal." He pockets his hands and as the angry smear beneath his foot puts itself out, the Sin lets his body fall lax; his ego, all but coming in to smother the notion.
He can wait. After all, his real target should be easy to bait. Envy was and is a predictable creature. No doubt, it's still licking its wounds from earlier. And a loss for jealousy? Well, that would just piss it off enough to do something stupid, wouldn't it?
Greed's mouth wrangles itself into its usual, self-appreciating grin. "Give me a couple of hours. I'll call you on Martel's phone." He thumbs over his shoulder to gesture back at the crew behind him. "She can give you the direction of the place once I'm done."
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And in a way, paint Greed in the light that Murmur saw him, or at the very least the light he pretended was the case: Predictable, and most interested in maintaining his own little kingdom. Not a threat to Heaven, not a threat to stability. Murmur was gambling that in the long run those of the Holy City would be disinclined to repeat this endeavor and instead choose to leave Greed to his devices. He keeps to his own, they to theirs, and the other Sins will have to find new pawns for their games. Murmur of course would always be on their hit list, but that was a problem for a later date.
With Heaven out of the way peaceably, Greed could focus his efforts on the real problem: Envy. "There are other boons to this path," Murmur advises, mysterious as ever. He's not going to go into unnecessary detail, he's not lead Greed astray yet. Finishing off his tea he set the cup aside gingerly, pushing it back toward the Sin to return to his treasury, wherever that might be. "Excellent. Understood. I will return when I have obtained what I need."
He'd like more time to heal, but time was never a gift he had enough of. Before Greed could say anything else he was gone, little more than a gentle cool breeze and the faintest flap of a wing to signal his departure. He'd return by the appointed hour.
➥ Closed to @ albatrossomen | the devils, they do the despicable
On the outside, the building's in a sad state of dilapidation. The heat's cooked the old brick to a chalky kind of white. Like the bones of a beast long-since dead, they loom baked and forgotten; the stamp of a former business, a faded memory. Even the windows don't give much away. Nailed-in boards cover what had probably once been full panes of glass back in its prime and the shutter-door tin around front's pocketed in rust holes that gap and gasp as if trying desperately, so desperately, to take a breath. The town's a ghost. A tomb. One empty, quiet, and made of dust.
It goes against everything he is, being back here. The garage had once been his haunting ground; a place he lurked, did business, and turned a would-be profit. Those times had been different. He still had a mild connection with them back then. Not friendly, not in line, no, but a cordial kind of relationship where one of them could drop something in his lap and instead of trying to kill him, all they asked was, "How much?"
Funny, how life comes full circle.
Greed pushes a chair back, making it tilt unevenly on its legs. The man he has strapped to it looks like he's seen better days. His skin is sickly and blue; the sweat sticking to him is filmy like soap scum. His eyes, though: those are the most telling. Even under the cop-bright swing lamp, they glow a smokey kind of green. A neon toxic, poisoning with otherworldly radiation.
The Sin leers forward and as his claws grip and hold the edge of the lamp, his jaws curl upwards. The cigarette in his mouth all but illuminates his smile in a fluorescent, wet-slick sneer. "Hey, hey," he snap his fingers in front of the man's face. "No, you don't get to quit on me just yet, friend. We've still got some things to talk about."
In response, the man spits a glowing wad of wet onto the floor, painting the concrete in a blacklight smear. Greed merely looks at it, and with a petulant look and an exasperated grunt, he swipes the tip of his boot over the spittle. "Ehh - see, that wasn't very nice," he slurs his words through curtains of smoke. They part over his face as soft as a graying blush, kissing and dusting his expression.
The devil sighs, removing his cigarette. "I get it. I really do. But that sibling of mine did something pretty stupid, even for them. And because they couldn't help themselves, and because you don't seem too different, we've now found ourselves here." He inhales sharply, causing a flutter of leftover smoke to wind on the corner of his mouth. "So, I'll ask you again. Where is Envy now?"
"I told you to fuck off - " The man hisses. Where his voice should be hoarse and dry, the tone of it is thick. Gurgled. It splits in two in his throat: one, that sickness. The other, a desperate, raspy sound like a drafty window or a gas leak. The man is sick, and not in the normal way humans get. That bright, throbbing green in his spit, the way his veins squirm like worms, the corpse(y) shade of his skin. It's a cancer. An envious leech, consuming everything he is, everything he was, until there's nothing left. The deep bruises under his eyes sink into his sockets and a foam slowly froths and shrinks on his lips, slicking the cracks to a gross, Vaseline sheen.
Greed's frown dips. He shakes his head and ashes his cigarette on the man's thigh. "Yeah, already too gone, aren't you? That's a shame - " With a vacant look, the Sin leisurely begins to crush his cigarette into the other's forehead. Twist by twist, grind for grind, he drills the ember into the man's skin; the hiss of flesh and burnt hair crawling in whiffs of green disease.
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The familiar voice came from above, emotionless as ever. Little more than a dark silhouette punctuated with two copper-sulfate fire eyes perched on a beam as comfortable as though he'd been there the whole time. Perhaps he had been, Murmur did have a terrible habit of being where he wasn't wanted for far longer than anyone might desire. Even Greed.
He didn't budge from that perch, merely watched Greed with that peculiar intensity of his. Just what, exactly, was he offering here?
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Greed pulls his hand away, shaking the cigarette out before tossing it to the concrete. "Y'know, it would be a lot easier if you just cut to the chase, Feathers," he starts in through a cracking smile. Because he couldn't stay mad at Murmur, no. Not after all he's done, not after everything they've been through. Truly, he should be used to it by now. Where devils are clear cut with their intentions, angels? They're vague, abstract creatures with tongues laced in enough convoluted and ambiguous directions that'd it be easy, all too easy, to get lost in a simple conversation.
So instead of guessing, the devil merely throws his hands over his head in slack surrender. "If you've got a better way, I'm all ears," he hums and turns his wrists, exposing his palms to the ceiling. "Otherwise, I'm gunna do him the favor." Greed grips his hip on one side and uses his other hand to lift the man's head back, showing the knotted veins writhing in his throat.
"Envy's been using this one for a while, so either way, he isn't coming back from it once we're done."
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After all, Murmur believed himself being quite frank and clear in his words, as such Greed's display of exasperation earned little more than a puzzled expression and a faint bird-like tilt of his head. "Would you like to try again?" He repeated, emphasizing the last word as though that somehow would make his meaning more clear. "If so, then I suggest you move this along..."
He lets the words drip cold, hanging heavy in the are like a late evening's freezing fog, only breaking the silence long enough to add: "Leave the vocal cords intact."
In other words, hurry up. What exactly he planned to do once the deed was done was anyone's guess. Angels didn't often make it a habit of letting anyone know exactly what sets of skills they had up their sleeves.
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The Sin shrugs his shoulders. "Suit yourself," he hums while a second skin lithely slinks up his arm. It plays on his flesh as jaggedly as an audio turner; the pattern, sporadic. Where there had been fingers and knuckles, it's now claws and smooth carbon that remains. The epitome of avarice made hard, made sharp, made deep, deep down like buried treasures birthed by sheer pressure and force alone.
It only takes one swipe to open up the man's thigh.
"Could have just said something before. I wouldn't have wasted my time," Greed consciously sidesteps away as the blood floods in. And flood it does. From the garish tear, a thick, blackened-red pusses out of the man. Large bubbles breathe themselves to the surface, their pcks and pops phlegmy and diseased. Whether the individual feels it at all is anyone's guess. But his blank face, his slowly paling complexion: they say otherwise. He's too far gone. Too far taken by jealousy, it's promises, and it's delivery of complete and absolute nothing.
Greed flicks his wrist, sending a painter's sprinkle of blood onto the floor.
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The angel watched, his gaze intent while expression as emotionless as it ever was. There was something about his posture, though no obvious shift had occurred a tension had grown, a coil spring wound so tight it was ready to snap and when it did...
He swooped. Wings no more than a faint shadow in the dim light, a light breeze to twist and turn the smoke that hung heavy in the air. Predatorily he stalked around his prey, coming to lean just up beside the dying man's ear from behind. He sniffed, inhaling deep and for the briefest moment there was a flash of just a few too many teeth to be considered a smile. The man was quite still by now, unquestionably dead, and yet Murmur didn't seem put off by this in the least. Murmur, close to his ear, whispered: "Come back."
No response.
"Come baack~." Sing-song, almost mocking as he called into the dead man's ear. For several more moments there was nothing, how could there be? None could drag the dead back from Hell's gates... surely?
Yet he twitched. "There you are," Murmur crooned encouragingly. "Come back. Follow my voice." A twitch, a sputter, a phlegmy gurgle as blood and mucous crawled from the man's desperate lungs and out of his throat. He was a right sight, choking and coughing and yet undeniably what had been quite thoroughly dead was... at least some vague facsimile of alive. Murmur moved just enough to peer into his eyes, the terrified man peered back but before the gurgling sound could become a scream a hand slammed his jaw shut, a finger tapping out a firm "no" against his lips and all that escaped was a pathetic whimper.
"None of that," He snapped firmly. And when the tears began to well he sighed in disgust and stood, releasing the man's jaw. "Enough. Really, a little death and you fall apart so easily. Leave all that bravado back in Hell did you?"
The man, now trembling in an effort to control his sobbing only looked at Murmur in horror. "Y-y-... you know?" He croaked, voice cracked and strained in his tortured vessel. "Can... you can spare me, can't you? Take me out of there."
Again Murmur only stared at him impassively. Unmoved by the pleas. "No." The sobbing picked back up. "But I can offer a temporary stay of execution," Again he leaned in, this time to hiss the words with the underlying threat of 'I can send you back whenever I want.'
"So long as you prove useful to me. Do we have an understanding?"
Solemnly the man nodded, it would appear that even a few moments on the rack were enough to urge a little more cooperation. Moving back around to the front Murmur made a grand gesture for Greed to continue.
"He should be feeling more... amenable to our cause."
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A lighter loudly clicks open, spinning up spark and fire as he breathes life into a new cigarette. "Now that is a terrible trick," Greed's voice is rough through the smoke. It tangles with it, melds with it, as if the two are one in the same. "Glad I'll never have to go through that." Because he could only imagine. How it would feel to sink down, down, down, only to be ripped back up again. Souls, mortal ones anyway, are fragile things. They're easy to tear apart. Piecing them back together again, though? That takes skill. Finesse. It's something neither him nor his can or would ever be able to do. Even in Heaven, it's a rare thing. So for it to come so easily, so simply, well -
The devil's inhale is slow and relaxed as he drags puff after puff deep into his chest. He'll have to ask later. For now, business calls.
"Welcome back," Greed snarls through a smile that's the furthest thing from nice. "Enjoy the trip, ya little pissant?" A litter of ash trembles off his cigarette as it bobs and jumps on the sharps of his teeth. "Gunna take your silence as a no. So, why don't we start from the beginning, hmn?" The Sin circles while he talks. He gives a wide birth at first, only to narrow as he goes; his lazy stroll punctuated by his heels as they tnk and clck atop the concrete floor like a bell tolling off hours. "You made a deal with one of mine. And now that ugly little piece of shit's decided to hightail it outta here."
He makes a second circle before moving in front of the man. Where there had been a bit of mirth in his look before, a cool expression passes over his face. It's distant and a aloof; focused and chilled. A fire forced low, low, low, yet still burning despite his efforts. There's no doubting his nature in the moment: he's a devil. The kindness, the playful tone, the flirting on an all-too-satisfied smile. He can't muster any of them. The man may not have been part of the raid on the 'Nest, but he's connected.
And avarice, ah. It's never said no to burning a few loose ends.
Greed edges his palm over the back of the chair, letting his nails bite fresh ash into the frame. "Envy," he says. "You're going to tell me where they are. After that, well. I would say I'm sorry, but you've made things a bit difficult for me. And I'm a little tired of being fucked around with. Think you understand, don't you?"
The man seems to understand and as he gingerly nods his skull, the Sin rolls his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. "Glad we can understand each other. I can't make you a deal that'll save you - you already fucked yourself on that. But prove yourself needy enough, and you might just have a better chance." He tips the chair back just a bit more to get his point across and the man tenses up, bracing for the fall. "Ah, yeah, that translates, doesn't it? Don't have to explain myself twice."
Greed leans forward to sigh a blistering cloud of smoke in the man's face. "Show me where they went."
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At Greed's sentiment of being grateful he'd never be yanked around like a puppet on a string Murmur simply smirked, something cold and almost predatory there before he turned his eyes back to his new pet monkey. For the time being Murmur would return to his lurking just out of the light, observing silently while Greed pressed the man for information.
When the final question fell the man seemed equal parts terrified and troubled, he feared Envy of course, but he also feared these two. Greed and his barely repressed violence, and the strange lurking angel that just ripped him from Hell and could send him back at any moment. Which was worse, he couldn't decide. "I-I-I can't... I don't know how..."
Murmur moved in again, hissing in his ear. "Then you will take us there."
As though he had sensed that the reason the man couldn't tell them was because he lacked a method by which to explain, but this gave him a different option. One he wasn't certain he liked much better... but what choice did he have? He nodded, if it weren't for the whole death thing he'd be sweating bullets right now.
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Another roll of smoke winds off his tongue as it splits in two before wetly zippering back together in strings of sweet-spun gold. "Guess I can't say no to that option. It's not like we have any other good ones." The devil unclips a ring from his belt and slides one of his nails between the clasp, releasing a key that looks fairly new. "At least tell me you're smart enough to handle a stick, friend."
Though he doesn't get an answer, Greed tosses the key to the floor. It lands between the man's spread heels; its nickel sheen almost glittering. Like a token from the ferry man thrown just out of reach. The Sin watches the man try to nudge it closer and as the metal disappears under the sole of a shoe, the slits of his eyes wildly expand again.
"Had to get a chauffeur, didn't you?" He asks Murmur, the sarcasm coming back, back, back in huffs of sulfur-burnt tobacco. "Y'know, you may have some talents there, feathers, but that ego of yours is really fucking something. Eh, whatever," he sucks at his smoke and eats away what's left of the cigarette in one long inhale. "Guess I should expect it by now, shouldn't I?"
Greed tosses the remnants of his half-cooked filter to the floor and grinds it with his heel, forcing bits of ash to scatter like spiders disturbed from their nest. "We'll do it your way, this time." The Sin steps to the side of the chair and gives it one last shove of his foot. Again, the legs teeter and totter, and the man scrambles around his loosening (and when did that happen?) binds. And as the ropes fall away, Greed strolls out towards the door; his back, an expanding shadow that seems to eat and bite at the floor as if a thousand or more souls were trapped inside, clawing to break free.
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At Greed's quip Murmur smirked faintly, offering him his most innocent look and a faint shrug. "Now I know I've told you before I don't do monkey work, Greed." Driving, apparently, counted as monkey work. "You really must start listening when I speak." He doesn't only do it for his own amusement, after all.
Just partly.
Chuckling at the Sin's retreating back he glances over at the human fumbling to adjust to his newfound lack of feeling. That will take some getting used to, and he better be quick about it. "Come along, do try to keep up." For this one he would have far less patience than he's had with the demon.
He actually likes the demon, after all.
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"Yeah, yeah. I heard you before," he hums as he spins his gaze downward to trace out their vehicle in question. It isn't his usual choice of car. The paint job's seen better years; its color and chrome faded and beaten by the cruel fist of the sun. He traces a faint line of steel trim running its body and as a thin, bone-colored blush of dust collects on his finger, the devil's smile charms right back into place. It takes very little for his attentions to wander. And where there had been rage, burning, now there's a venomous satisfaction.
Because he'll take what he's owed. He'll take what's his. And he'll take it just as the good book says. A pound of flesh adds up, after all.
Greed jerks the driver's side door open, making the springs inside it groan and croak like a casket, airy with age. "Well, c'mon, bring you little plaything so we can get a move on. Envy doesn't stay in one place for too long." He gives the door a none-too-subtle kick with his shoe if only to snap their human guide to the task at hand.
Truly, despite how much of a pain Murmur can be, that feeling? It's certainly mutual. And he's willing to follow his lead if it means he'll get his well-deserved payout.
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"Get moving!" He snapped, the previously heated air now shifting to a biting, cruel cold.
"You try pickin' things up when you can't feel your fingers..." The man was muttering, finally managing to paw the key into an awkward meaty hand.
"Be silent," Murmur gestured, clamping his fingers together like the closing of a mouth, and the man found himself gagging and gasping, unable to speak. Apparently he was already irritated by the complaints. "Drive, monkey." He nearly snarled, the cold causing delicate curls of ice to form on every surface before it finally subsided.
This was a side of Murmur Greed probably hadn't seen much. Evidently the angel was not beyond cruelty, and certainly had no grace left to give to one who had so willingly damned his soul. Especially for one who damned it over envy of all sins. For his part Murmur helped himself to the passenger seat, spending the time to level an expectant, judging stare at the now silent man shuffling to take his spot behind the wheel.
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Oh, oh, oh, can he not help but look.
The devil flashes a thin smile before opening one of the backdoors. A crisp sheet of chill snaps off the lip, sending a little dusting coughing to the ground like a short, snowy squall. "Might want to listen to him, friend," Greed tongues as he slides into the seats in the rear. He sprawls out one of his legs, slapping his heel against the center console with a solid thunk. "-even I haven't seen him like this before. Would be a lot easier on ya if you took his offer."
Settling in, he plants his elbows onto either side of the door, allowing him to spread out haphazardly in the back. With the small of his spine planted into a tight corner, the Sin tips his head towards the window. Immediately, the ice across the glass begins to drearily melt - his threat of heat, cooking it to trickles. Greed reaches into his vest. "Though, think that was taking it a bit far, huh? Don't tell me you're letting those emotions of yours take control, Mur," he purrs, chidingly. It's all a part of this whole thing they have. A little give, a little teasing, and plenty, oh plenty, of take, take, take.
The Sin strikes a match across the door's top trim, causing the tip of it to huff to a flame. For a second or two, he just watches it; the flick of fire, playing dim reflections in his shades. Finally though, he coaxes it to the end of a fresh cigarette and as the black paper peels away, it's gold that answers. Gold, rich and toxic.
He presses the crank down with his elbow to toss the match out the window. "Y'know, there'll be more of them once we get there. Don't think that little trick of yours is going to work." He shifts, arching his shoulders into the frame of his tight nook. "And Envy, ah well. I'm pretty sure they already have a good idea we're coming."
A thread of smoke tangles out of his nose, and the Sin's lips peel back. The warmth of the tobacco pillows behind his teeth. It sags on his tongue like a thunderhead - the thickness of it, solid. Heavy. Greed sighs, and a sheet of smog scrapes over his grin. "Think you can keep our friend here occupied while I say hello? Then, feel free to do whatever you want." Slurring, the Sin twists his wrist. Violence isn't his go-to, not usually. But this is a bit personal, isn't it? And given the angel's current temperament, well.
They tried not to make it messy from the start, didn't they?
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A break. Then everything came falling down.
While utterly devastating and furious, one could battle a wildfire. An avalanche one simply had to hope to survive.
The man, now commanded to silence in such a way he had no hope of regaining his tongue until Murmur relented, merely shot Greed an irritated look, before glancing more nervously toward the chilly angel who was watching him pointedly out of the corner of his eye. Facing forward, stock still, eyes tracking his every move. It was terrifying, frankly. He'd always thought angels were supposed to be the good ones.
While Murmur didn't react immediately to Greed's chiding, the chill in the car did sharpen, but for a moment. A threat of winter's deepest chill, where even the hottest fire struggled to produce warmth. Rather than take his bite to Greed at the moment, he focused his attention on their unwilling driver.
"He knew the cost when he sold his soul. The window for buyer's remorse... has passed."
The man winced slightly, scowling but not daring meet the angel's narrowed eyes. Finally Murmur turned away, focusing his attention on the road before them. How long this trip was taking already irritated him. Most of the time he could be patient, but much like that tumbling building snow from a mountainside, now that he was angry he wasn't going to calm down until the situation had been resolved.
Permanently.
"The humans and their toys do not concern me," Murmur quipped, switching his attention to the sky above them. Behind them, a storm raged, chasing their wake with all of heaven's fury. Finally Murmur turned to level that icy venom-green gaze of his upon the sin. Generally, he didn't make direct eye contact, always looking just a little off to the middle distance past whoever he was talking to. When he focused, well... the object of his focus would understand why immediately. It didn't feel like one pair of eyes, or even two, but came with the sensation of being stared down and peeled apart under the scrutiny of countless eyes. This was the sensation Greed would experience now, under Murmur's pitiless stare.
"Do you presume I will be waiting in the car for you?"
His voice was calm, the thunder roiling overhead was not.
➥ Mafia AU | The World Is Your Damn Oyster (CW: Blood, Gore, 18+, There's Probably More Here)
Mob well, my friends. 🥂
what i had it partially written already
Which is why, complete with the threads to make him look the part, he saunters through the crowd with a briefcase in tow. Unlike what one might see in a movie there are no supersized bodyguards flanking him or an ornate golden chain connecting the case to his wrist. Why? Because they know better than to test him.
The last time someone got Greedy he broke their hand, apologized, and even had the wherewithal to take them to get their hand treated after. Michael abhors violence, choosing only to use it when absolutely necessary and even then, he tends to take it easy on those weaker than him. Is that an award winning combination for someone affiliated with the mob?
Not unless your nickname happens to be The Angel — not just for his kindness. He can also just as easily send a man to an early grave if they choose not to relent when he gives them a choice. A few take his grace and even thank him for it but there have been several who chose to fight. Whether they still roam these streets or not, he really wouldn’t know.
Eventually, amidst getting lost in his thoughts, he finds himself at his destination: The Devil’s Nest. He can smell it before he even sets foot inside, the remnants of tobacco, alcohol and the familiar scent of bodies likely tangled in intimate embraces. But he isn’t here to watch the show, he is here to deliver the case to the owner of this decadent little house of sin — a tithe, from the smaller fish that share the pond.
And he spots him, it would be difficult not to. The timber of his voice, the way everyone seems to gravitate to him by the bar as if waiting for the show to begin. In this world, information is key and no one has more of it than Greed. Michael doesn’t have to call him, he simply waits for the man to feel his eyes on him and turns to walk into the back room with the case in tow.
This may be Greed’s place but he isn’t about to trust a roomful of strangers to abide by the rules of the house. Once there, he sets the briefcase on the table, opens it, and leans back against the table to peer through his sunglasses at the door, waiting.
Truthfully, the case isn’t the only reason he is here. When he hears footsteps, he murmurs the next words out. Jealousy has no place here, not with them, he looks more amused than anything else. ]
You kept me waiting, though I see you were busy. As usual. It’s all here, I counted it twice. They were appreciative and hope to continue doing business with you in the future.
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[Ah well, have they always counted on it.]
[If he were a different man, he might have thanked them. But he isn't, and he never will be. He left them for a reason, after all. Maybe that's why he chose this spot in the first place. What had once been a thriving industrial district, the city's Southside has now become a cesspool of sorts. Boarded-up buildings stand empty on the street and the few businesses that have stuck around have either closed down for the night or are just starting to open up again; their rolled-tin shutters, whining and skipping to the tune of thick, rust-caked chains.]
[No one goes to the Southside unless they have a reason to go to the Southside. And usually? It's a single destination they have in mind.]
[A sliver of light cuts across the bar, and Greed slowly lifts his head. Two women flank either side of him. They tangle themselves over his shoulders and torso, loose and unbothered; their wandering hands only pausing once they realize just who has come walking through the doors. Michael may not be a regular, but he has a reputation. And considering what he's brought with him? It wouldn't take too much stretching of the imagination to guess why he's here.]
[Greed slides a wedge of lime across the lip of a drink before anchoring it on the edge of the glass. No, they all know exactly where Michael is going and as he disappears into the back room, the man named Sin mouths something against the jaw of the woman to his right; his smile, teased in threads of smoke.]
[By the time he makes his way out back, what's left of his previous company are trinkets. A thin touch of lipstick stains the side of his neck peeking from the fur collar of his jacket, and a hint of perfume halos all around him. The smell, a mix of him, them, and the constant, heavy afterburn of cheap tobacco. Greed nudges the door closed with the back of his heel, letting it shut silently behind him. This deep inside, the noise from the bar is muddled at best. A few conversations blur behind the walls and as a roar of laughter rattles out front, he casually slips away from the door - his pace, unhurried and lax.]
Oh? Did I now? Suppose I owe you for the trouble then, don't I. [Greed's eyes chase away from the case to slide up Michael's arm. He follows each and every part of him: the way his suit unassumingly snugs his shoulders, how his vest cuts into him, shaping out the raw muscle underneath. It'd be easy for someone to take the man for a simple target. But that would be a mistake. A deadly, costly mistake, and one that he knows all too well.]
[Nothing, no nothing, is ever what it seems.]
[Greed leans forward to thumb a stack of cash. He lets the bills fan over his nail - their peel more similar to a deck of shuffled-slow cards. He clicks his tongue behind the backs of his teeth with an appreciative snap.] Always have to make sure everything's in order. Ha - ! I'm not surprised. You never could leave anything to chance, even if there's no point.
As for our friends - [He drops the stack back onto the pile.] - you can let them know that our deal still stands. Long as they keep holding up their end of the bargain.
[He turns, then; the money all but forgotten. In the end, it's simply another payment. Another transaction, another equivalent exchange. No, what he has his sights set on is worth so much more. And as he settles one of his heels next to Michael's, Greed leans forward. He eats up the space between them with nothing more than a smile; the points of his teeth, daggered and slick. He hovers one of his fingers close to Michael's tie and his eyes drop to his throat.]
[He pulls away at the last second, letting the point of his knuckle smooth down the soft, silky fabric.] Now, since I kept you waiting and all, think it's only right I make it up to you. [Greed's eyes tick upward, meeting his reflection in the other man's shades.] So, what do you have in mind, Blues?
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He comes here for one reason and one reason alone, the Sin who currently graces him with his presence. In another world? They probably would have been enemies but something about this charismatic asshole lured him in like a moth to a flame. Sometimes he thinks about doing the world a favor and smothering him with a pillow but therein lies the rub — Greed just won’t die. ]
You are always trouble, Greed. If I collected every time there was an inconvenience, you would never get anything done around here. [ His shades hide the amusement dancing in his eyes but the exasperation is palpable in the air. Sometimes he wonders why he keeps this up. ]
Leaving things to chance is precisely why your competition is struggling. It’s better to act, their movements are predictable enough to counter. It often makes me wonder whether they are doing this for sport rather than financial gain, though they lack the conviction to succeed in either.
Your friends. [ The correction is soft but swift. ] If it were up to me, there wouldn’t be a deal in place. I’d say I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them, but we both know I have quite an arm. And I’ve never missed a target.
[ A handkerchief is plucked from his back pocket so he can reach up and scrub away the lipstick on his neck. The color is wrong, offensively gaudy and clashes with his image, it has nothing to do with jealousy. The lingering stench of the cheap perfume is the only offensive thing to him in this room. ]
While you’re still caked in the aftermath of your prizes for the evening? You’re bold, aren’t you? A drink will suffice, I won’t keep you long. If you look at me any more intensely, you will bore a hole through me. [ A pause, then he leaves him with an appropriate quote for the occasion. He sees those eyes. ] Not all that tempts your wandering eyes and heedless hearts, is lawful prize; nor all that glisters gold.
[ Rather than wait, he pointedly slides around the former homunculus to grab it himself. He knows where everything is kept, he always has, he is usually just polite about waiting until offered. He is tired, the job is done and now it is time to hang up his wings for a little while. As much as he prides himself on an immaculate appearance, removing his tie some days is liberating. ]
Do you want one?
[ Michael lowers his shades, casually beginning to loosen his tie. And if he happens to throw a certain look over his shoulder, pay it no heed. Clearly he is trying to get a bit more comfortable. Or he is simply forcing Greed to work for his supper tonight out of spite.
Probably the latter. He really does dislike dealing with his new friends and punctuality is gospel. ]
Or am I drinking alone tonight?